


Given Asphodel and Cypress

by Bees_Stars_and_Snow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Molly Hooper, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexual Mary Morstan, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Drug Addiction, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Heavy Angst, Hurt John Watson, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper/Mary Morstan Friendship, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Slow Burn, Suicidal John, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bees_Stars_and_Snow/pseuds/Bees_Stars_and_Snow
Summary: John takes Sherlock's death so hard that he reaches the point of suicide attempts. As he tries to move on with his life, he hallucinates the presence of his best friend and eventually just accepts that the face and voice of his friend will haunt him for the rest of his life.When Sherlock comes back from his two year absence expecting things to just... work out, he gets quite the surprise when John proposes to Mary. Nothing could have prepared Sherlock for the emotional storms he would have to fight through, especially not being afraid of his own best friend when trying to gain back the son that was taken from him.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Molly Hooper/Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**A White and Yellow Chrysanthemum**

John looked down at his feet, taking a deep breath to steady himself as the light breeze pushed at his back, rustling his hair softly, small pin pricks of water landing sharp on his cheeks. He looked through the darkness for anyone around as he searched the street far below him and bit his lip softly as he examined the soft yellow lights illuminating the road through the gentle misting of rain, eventually satisfied when he didn't find anyone out this late at night to witness his fall. John shuffled closer to the edge of the hospital, his bare toes hanging off of the edge and dangling stories above merciless concrete that was soon to meet him. He rubbed his arms as a wet chill threatened to seep into his bones and he swallowed stiffly, scared out of his mind. John's head was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions as he closed his eyes against the sharp smelling rain and terrifying prospect of death, building up his last thoughts. It was a horrifying thing, death, but despite shaking in terror at the thought of never waking up, John wanted the pain of hitting the sidewalk and freedom of letting himself slip from his burdening body more than anything in the world. Everything in the past month had been numb, dull, pointless. He hadn't gotten out of his bed for two weeks after Sherlock, but even after that, he had just ended up curled up in his best friend's chair the whole day until he could move back to his bed. Now, John just wanted to join the man he cared about the most in the world, so his eyes snapped open and he took a deep breath, leaning forward to let himself fall.

"Three new voice messages from Gary. You should listen to them before you go." John froze for a moment at the sound of the man's voice coming from behind him, eventually leaning back and sitting down on the concrete ledge on the edge of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, wondering if he should see why Detective Lestrade called or just get back up and throw himself from the roof. Finally he sighed and gave in, hopping off of the ledge and heading back over the roof where he had left his phone in his shoes covered with his jacket. The man who spoke was sitting next to the shoes with a slightly amused look on his face and his head tilted forward to let blood drip from his hair onto the ground. "I knew you would listen to them. It is quite pointless actually, those messages won't make you feel any better in the long run." The man looked back to the edge of the building. "Or more accurately, the next few minutes."

Sparing a quick glance back to the ledge sadly, John picked up his phone and tapped a few buttons as he glared at the man sitting by his jacket. "You're a bloody prat. You know that right? I would have thought that you of all people would have tried to stop me or something." He silently scolded himself for not ignoring the phone or at least turning it off so he wouldn't get phone calls. Looking at the time, quickly, 1:39 am, he pressed a button and the phone gave off a high pitched beep and the messages played.

_"Hey there John. I know it is sort of late, okay it is VERY late, but I just got a call from Molly saying something was wrong? I don't know what it is, I'm sorry for bothering you if you're asleep but we might need your help."_

1:15 am

_"Hi John. It's me again. Greg. Greg Lestrade. The detective. I just got another call from Molly and she seems pretty freaked out right now and I know you aren't asleep because you're never asleep until at least three in the morning so you should probably pick up your phone now. I'm coming over to the flat to make sure you're okay so you just stay right where you are."_

1:19 am

_"John, it's me, Greg. Again. Where the hell are you? Molly is in a panic and Mrs. Hudson nearly ripped up your flat looking for you because she's terrified. Where did you go? Molly's ready to search the whole city for you and she already started tearing down the street in her car when she figured out you weren't at the flat. Wherever you are, stay there."_

1:27 am

John frowned. "Damn it to hell." He hadn't wanted anyone to notice his absence for a while. Looking down at the phone that was now vibrating in his hand, he looked at the number to see that it was Detective Lestrade again. Deciding against his better judgement, John pressed the accept button and held the phone up to his ear. "Hello? John Watson speaking."

"John! Oh thank god." Lestrade sounded out of breath as if he had been running and he sighed with relief at the sound of John's voice. "Where are you? Why aren't you at your flat at this time of night? Are you alright? John?"

John sighed softly. "Yeah Greg. I'm all good right now. I just needed to take care of something really quick. It won't be more than an hour or so and then you'll see me again, alright?" He looked back towards the stone ledge and started walking towards it slowly. "Don't you worry about me at all, I'm perfectly safe at this moment."

Lestrade grunted in disbelief and John heard a ding on the other end of the phone alerting Lestrade to a text message that the man inhaled sharply at. "Yeah, sure thing John. Stay right there, we're coming to pick you up so just don't move a muscle. Seriously, I mean it John, don't move from the spot you're standing in right now. Don't move."

John rolled his eyes as he hoisted himself back up onto the concrete ledge and shuffled around so he was standing again. The numb feeling was settled deep into his bones and he couldn't bring himself to pretend to feel any emotions as his voice fell into a dull tone. "You sound worried Greg. Too much stress is bad for you and could lead to rapidly graying hair and baldness. You should really just wait for me back at the flat and get some rest, doctor's orders." John didn't want anyone to stumble across the hospital in their search, so he just directed Lestrade back to the flat.

John could hear the upset tone of voice when Lestrade next spoke. "Listen John, this isn't funny. We all care about you deeply and we would really miss you if you were gone. Molly's almost there so hang on a little bit longer, just don't do it. Please John, don't jump."

John frowned. "Who ever said that I was going to jump from anywhere?"

Lestrade seemed to have lost his patience as his voice became sharp and clipped. "I may be a detective John, but I'm not some sort of genius. It doesn't take any Sherlock type deductions to figure out what's going on. Also you should really just back away from the edge okay? Just back away and sit down. Please." 

John looked over at the man to his left that had decided to come and accompany him on the edge of the hospital and he felt everything drain from his body. All of the fear and nervousness was gone as he looked at the man who was now letting the blood drip from his hair down into the streets below, the only thing filling up his body was the empty numbness that swallowed his every movement. He just wanted to let his legs buckle underneath him and feel the wind on his skin as he fell to come in contact with the horribly alluring pavement so that he could let go. "Greg?" The detective sucked in a deep breath at the sound of John's voice, but he didn't speak. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't feel anything. I'm not scared or in pain, I just want to let go like he did. Like Sherlock." John looked over to the man, dark curls soaked with the blood that ran down the sides of his face and neck, smiling the way he always had whenever they had gotten a particularly interesting case, but with no emotions hidden in the dead eyes that stared blankly in the direction of John. The color of his eyes still contained the wonderfully complicated shades and hues, but it was dull and faded, exactly the look John got when he saw the body of this man dead on the sidewalk over a month earlier. John let the phone drop from his ear a bit as he heard shouting on the other end, but it sounded worlds away in the moments he looked into the eyes of his grinning flatmate. "Sherlock, you're smiling at the wrong time again." John paused, his voice low. "How did it feel?"

Sherlock grinned brightly. "It was amazing John. I finally felt free as I fell, completely brilliant. It was as if I had just solved the case of the century, finally figuring it out after a lifetime of questions." He took a large breath, leaning forward as if to fall off the building again. "The feeling of hitting the pavement is fantastic John, just pure pleasure."

John let a small smile tug at his lips, looking at Sherlock with admiration. "That brilliant, huh? Amazing and fantastic. Don't you think you're over selling it just a bit."

Sherlock grinned widely and stepped closer to John who looked back down at the fall that called to him, taking his hand lightly and intertwining their fingers. "Never. The thrill is unparalleled." 

John smiled a bit more, standing quietly in the wind for a few moments before he finally spread his arms. "Unparalleled." The taste of the word was funny on his tongue and he chuckled lightly as Sherlock let go of his hand and stepped off the edge of the building, laughing the whole way down until he hit the pavement and looked up at John with his dead eyes, calling for him with a lightning smile. "Unparalleled thrill." John felt the word on his tongue one again, rolling it around before he tilted himself forward and felt his feet slip away from the edge. The edge of the brick gently brushed the bottom of his feet as he fell forward, dropping his phone back onto the roof as someone slammed through the door, shouting his name in a familiar voice. He felt the air on his skin as he started the descent, his knees buckling and tipping him to the side as his chest passed the ledge, then his shoulders and neck. 

John only dimly felt the pain of a hand grabbing his jumper, nearly choking him to death as hands scrambled for something to hold that wouldn't rip, clawing desperately at his neck and shoulders for something to hold as he hung off the side of the hospital. The sharp fingers dug into the neck of his jumper, clawing their way down to his shoulders, scratching the skin of his neck as they pulled viciously at his clothes, begging for purchase on anything as the shirt started sliding up and John slid down. He only heard dim shouts, the rain becoming heavier and making everything harder to grab. "John! Please John grab my hands! Please! Stop it! Stop slipping! John! Please John! JOHN! JOHN PLEASE! GRAB MY HANDS! JOHN! JOHN! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS! JOHN! JOHN PLEASE! **JOHN GRAB MY HANDS! JOHN! PLEASE! JOHN PLEASE! JOHN! DEAR GOD PLEASE JOHN! I'M BEGGING YOU! GRAB MY HANDS! JOHN! JOHN!** " 

John felt himself slipping further down as the clawing became more frantic, the hands tearing at his shirt, trying to pull him up. Nails left red welts where they scraped at skin as the hands finally got a hold under John's armpits and started clawing more frantically as the rain made things slippery. Bare skin exposed up to his chest where his shirt was bunched up from being pulled, slowly slipping as his arms came above his head from where the hands were desperately pulling. If at all possible, the screaming became more frantic and the hands became more desperate, clawing viciously at his skin, tearing it with sharp nails as John was pulled desperately upwards, the hands grabbing at anything that could help until finally reaching John's pants, sinking the bloody fingernails into the fabric, finally having enough of John to pull at and doing just that. The hands yanked hard, pulling him up in lurches, dragging his bare skin over the rough stone ledge and pulling his feet over the side of the building until he was rather violently thrown as far from the edge as possible where he cracked his head on the cement, everything automatically going blurry and the rain sounding like it was coming through the shittiest speaker in the world. The hands quickly came back, grabbing John's hands and dragging him away from the edge back to where his jacket was and letting go of his hands to scoop him up gently. John felt the arms cradle him softly, suddenly desperately aware of how freezing the air was and how feverish the body holding him seemed to be. It was too high to be normal and the pulse he was feeling pressed against his chest was speeding faster than what was healthy. He felt his head swimming deliriously as his eyes shifted in and out of focus, searching for the face on the person holding him, but only finding rough black wool against one cheek and sticky hair clinging to his other. There was a hand behind his head to hold him up and one on his back, the gentle pressing effectively keeping him in the dark about who had dragged him away from the edge. Instead, he pressed one of his hands against the person's neck lightly, confirming both the heat and pulse. "You're sick, you shouldn't be in the rain."

John felt the grip tighten and the hand on his head come off to check something, blood automatically gushing from the area his head hit the cement below him until the hand was replaced. "You really are forever the doctor John. Not even bothering to think about your own concussion." The hand on his back moved away to John's coat, rolling it up a bit and gently trading the other hand for the rolled up coat, pressing it to his head and tying the sleeves together in front. "Close your eyes." The voice was soft but strict so John did as he was told, too exhausted to do anything but obey and he felt the warmth on his body dissolve, almost as if it was just a ghost, dissolving into thin air, leaving John to lay there on the cement surrounded by the cold.

John let his eyes flutter open heavily, tilting his fog filled head to the right to look at the man standing there, both of them listening to the sound of car doors slamming and desperate yelling down below in the street. Sherlock was standing near the edge, observing the commotion at the front door of the hospital as the heavy rain fell around them both, soaking the wilted figure of John and leaving Sherlock dry as expected. The wind rushed over the rooftop, pushing the back of Sherlock’s unbuttoned black trench coat around him like the billowing sail of a ship. Turning to face John with those dead eyes staring right through his soul, Sherlock stiffly made his way over to the doctor and crouched down over him, letting the blood coming from the side of his head drip onto John’s cheeks. “How very disappointing.”

John groaned, the bloody face of Sherlock Holmes blurring and swaying, barely being registered as the watery voice making its way through the ringing in his ears. “Who’s up here? Did you see anyone?”

Sherlock blinked slowly like a cat but in a condescending way as if to voice how obvious it was. “Oh yes, someone was up here a minute ago and they were very familiar to me.”

John had to keep himself from blacking out for a few more seconds, taking a few gasping breaths here or there to remind himself to breathe. “Who was it? What did they look like?”

Sherlock huffed. “It was me John. I have been the only person up here since you left the bloody flat.”

John blinked a couple times, the swaying and blurring lines getting worse. Had the person dragging him from the roof just been his imagination or had there actually been a stranger working in the hospital that had desperately tried to save him despite not knowing who the hell would climb onto a hospital roof in the middle of the night. John felt his brain being stabbed by loud noises behind him as someone tried to get through the flimsy metal door leading to the roof. Closing his eyes for a few moments, he fought to stay conscious through the waves inside his brain.

Finally, they busted through the door and John looked through his blurred vision to see Greg Lestrade running forward and grabbing his shoulders, shouting at him to keep his eyes open. Molly was quick to follow, swiftly placing her hand under John’s head to keep pressure on whatever was bleeding as John’s eyes rolled back into his head from the immense bain suddenly thundering through his brain. As he was hoisted up to his feet by a few people in scrubs, John felt the vomit in the back of his throat push up and out of his mouth, splattering onto the cement. When they reached the stairs the claw marks on his stomach, ribs, neck, and arms started throbbing, blood and rain soaking through his jumper that had slid back down to cover the desperate struggle of trying to haul someone limp and unhelpful back onto a roof they threw themselves off of. He felt his feet swept out from under him by Lestrade and a man in scrubs as he was hauled down the stairs where they were met someone with a gurney, quickly followed by Molly who rushed along taking his vitals and pressing the jacket against his head firmly to stem the flow of blood. John felt like passing out from the pain and no amount of people shouting at him not to was going to stop him. He was a bloody doctor for christ sake and no concussion was going to stop him from knowing how to treat one, but he wanted to sleep dammit and he certainly didn't care if he woke up or not, so he let himself pass out with the next wave of pain. The last thing he saw was Sherlock Holmes sitting on his legs with a blank look on his face, blood pouring from his hair in rivers flooding over his face and down his body to spill over the sides of the gurney.

* * *

White and yellow chrysanthemums are widely used to say **_goodbye_ **, particularly in Asia.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**With The Rosemary In His Pocket**

John silently moved around the dancefloor, swaying lightly with a kind brunette in his arms as a soft song was played by the band. He could feel a little swirl of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach as Sherlock stared at him with a blank face, the blood usually dripping down his face cleaned away with his dark curls slicked loosely back. He was only a few steps away from John and stood stock still as people passed through his body without seeing him, not even creating a ripple through his ghostly appearance. John knew that his unseen companion was picking apart the woman he was dancing with, the dead eyes flickering up and down her body with disdain. “I don't like her John. Besides, she’s married with two, no three, kids. She’s also quite plain. You could do so much better.” John ignored him in favor of dancing with his date. “Or you could just ignore women altogether and focus on what’s actually important. Like solving crimes or becoming a police officer, possibly take up gardening. Anything John. We should be out right now and I’m so  inconceivably  bored that I want to eat or sleep or read a book, literally anything to get away from this terrible place.” John forcibly smiled at the woman as the song ended and she gave him an uncomfortable look that screamed “You are really nice and all, but this will never work between us,” then walked away. He was left standing alone in the middle of some fancy ballroom that he never wanted to be in anyway with some snobby ghost man child talking his ear off, unable to contain himself anymore. Sighing in defeat, John walked off, collecting his coat at the door and making his way out to his car that was parked a few blocks away from the building. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel so hard that he was sure there would be a bruise in the morning. “Fantastic.” John groaned at the thought of returning to his sad little apartment as Sherlock prattled on in the passenger seat.

“She was plain John, much too boring for you. Besides, she wore an ugly dress that didn't fit her right and wore too much perfume. She smelled like a bloody flower shop dunked in a massive vat of hairspray. Not a good match for you I must admit. She’s probably just one of those middle aged mothers that runs their own cultist mother group.” Sherlock let his train of thought falter and his mouth closed, dead eyes flickering over John’s form quickly. “You’re in distress.” It wasn't a question, it was fairly obvious at this point.

John’s shoulders were shaking with the sobs of unshed tears, his face buried deep into his hands to hide the weakness of emotion, gasping breaths rattling his chest. He ran his hands through his hair, messing it up and forcing the hair just longer than a military cut up into dozens of different directions as he bent nearly in half behind the wheel in an attempt to hide his emotions. As he broke, John heard the telltale sound of Sherlock involuntarily falling apart as well, his hair being freed of its tamed prison and droplets of blood hitting the car seats. The less control John had, the worse his personal nightmare became, the sight of a neat and put together Sherlock fading as blood trickled down the side of his head and his face paled to a ghostly white. The Sherlock sitting next to him quickly took on the appearance of every single nightmare John had over the past month and a half, multiple different bloody deaths being thrust into one body. The sound of snapping bones hitting cement echoed through the car as the temperature quickly sunk and the neat suit became torn and bloody, arms and legs shifted in awkward positions as bones shoved their way horribly out of place and tried to cut their way through the inside of flesh. Blood splattered inside of the car as John saw Sherlock fall time and time again, each memory of the incident worse than the last, painfully aware of just how dead Sherlock really was. Finally, tears broke the dam trying to hold John together and the doctor was reduced to a sobbing mess in seconds, tears pouring down his cheeks as his body shook uncontrollably. He sobbed and shouted, yelling wordless noise into the empty car that was splattered with the blood of his dead best friend as he begged for death to come into the small vehicle and take him away forever. 

John let himself sob and break down for a few hours until the tears ran out and he sat there in silence, his jacket and shirt soaked through with sweat and tears, the uncomfortable feeling of the cloth clinging to his skin quickly becoming unbearable. He knew that he was in an unfit mental state to be driving safely on the road, he was a medical professional after all, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he pulled his tie off in one fluid motion and jammed the keys into the ignition. He didn't dare look over to Sherlock to see how broken he had become because whenever John broke down sobbing, the signs were always present on Sherlock’s body for the next ten minutes or so until they started fading away back into the mildly controlled pretenses of sanity and mental stability pictured in the normal chaotic look of Sherlock Holmes as seen from when the man had been alive. 

The small car jumped to life as John took to the road, feeling hopelessly drained as his throat itched and stung from his screams, tears burning his eyes and making his face feel tight and ready to crumble like fragile porcelain. It was obvious where he was driving to, unable to return to Baker Street to cry more and get drunk since he had moved to the small lonely apartment that he refused to go back to, so he drove himself rather recklessly to the graveyard Sherlock was buried in. 

John pulled into the cemetery slowly, tires crunching against gravel and crickets quietly chirping somewhere just close enough to hear, but too far away to find. He stepped out of the car, not bothering to take the keys with him after turning it off, and opened up the trunk to grab a rather large bottle of whiskey over halfway full. Pulling off the top and taking a large burning gulp, he started to make his way over to where he knew his best friend’s grave sat, welcoming the fiery comfort of alcohol to help him along as he took the steps needed to see the grave. The slow steps took the resolve out of John, making him turn around and retreat back to the car, not prepared to visit Sherlock for the first time alone, having only been at the grave once fourteen days ago with Mrs. Hudson. Seven hours after that, John was on the roof of a hospital, falling to what he hoped was his death. After a few days in the hospital, Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and once for about half a minute Mycroft, had kept an eye on him, getting him out of the flat to move around, change scenery, socialize. They had become insane with the precautionary measures and were all probably freaking out and looking for him at the moment, but he had to get away from the overwhelming sense of loneliness that 221B had left in him. First thing John did was move out, taking almost nothing with him when he left, unable to look at any of his possessions without remembering the piece that was missing. After that, Harry decided to pay him a short visit to help him move to the new flat, prodding her brother relentlessly until he agreed to go on a blind date. Eventually John had started going back to work, starting with small shifts at the hospital to keep up the appearance of getting over Sherlock's death when it reality, he couldn't, the evidence in the form of a hallucination that becomes a bloody mess every time he loses control of his emotions. The bloody mess that had slowly covered the whole floor of the car with a few inches of the imaginary red liquid, splatters still staining all available surfaces. He was relieved that none of this was actually real because it would have been a pain in the ass to clean. Taking another long pull from the bottle, John looked over to where the imaginary Sherlock was sitting, just watching as the hallucination's bones slowly crunched back into place and the skin sealed behind them from where they had broken through.

John closed his eyes, tempted to rub his fingers over the handle of the gun he almost always had tucked into his waistband for a fast death if he ever wanted to end it spontaneously, but instead took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, slowly closing the door behind him and resting a hand against the cool metal for a few moments. Looking out over the cemetery, he noticed how hauntingly beautiful it was with the large trees casting eerie shadows in the moonlight over the stones and small lavender moss phlox flowers popping up randomly in the grass. It was a perfect place for Sherlock, even he would never get bored looking at the scene in front of him, probably counting the graves or trying to figure out exactly how many flowers were on each phlox plant, possibly solving a mystery involving ants or leaves. Though, if there had been no death, then there would have been no point coming to the cemetery at all and John wouldn’t be all alone in the middle of an empty graveyard with nothing but a bottle of whiskey, a bleeding hallucination, an achingly tempting gun, and a whole lot of depressing suicidal episodes, but he was and needed to build up some courage. Taking a giant gulp of air, he took a few steps, counting as his hand slowly fell from the anchoring solidity of the car.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

There were seventeen steps from the car to Sherlock’s grave. John found the sad irony almost pitiful. Seventeen steps up to where Sherlock once lived, seventeen steps to where he now lay dead. He would have marked it off as a coincidence, but he remembered not to as he heard footsteps behind him, revealing Sherlock himself, bleeding from his head again. The dead eyes of the hallucination stared straight into the very core of John, knowing every secret there was to know. “Don’t say it Sherlock. I know already.”

Sherlock frowned. “Do you really think? Do you really know what I was about to say?”

John scoffed.” Of course I know. You were going to tell me that the universe is rarely so lazy. I know that already. The universe isn't lazy, it just likes to torture people by taking away the ones they love to watch them suffer." He knelt down in front of Sherlock's grave, running his fingertips over the letters carved into the cold stone and slowly letting his forehead fall to rest on top of the headstone, breathing steadily to keep himself from sobbing again that night. The hallucination stood by silently with a blank look on its face, only betrayed by the soft look in its eyes that made the tears brimming there look practically real if not for the fact that there was a dead lack of emotions. John turned to lean on the stone, bracing his back against it and taking another pull from his bottle, the swimming feeling in his head becoming more obvious as he sunk himself further into it. He smiled softly at the silence, moonlight waving through the leaves above him to cast patches of silver onto his face, surprisingly calm for the mental collapse he prepared himself for. "I miss you. I miss you so much Sherlock. I miss you so bloody much that it hurts." He let himself drift into his drunk blur, words leaving his mouth before he even fully thought of them. "I just really want you to come back ya know? Just want all of this," he gestured around at the cemetery, "all of this being dead thing, all of it to be not real. Can you do one last thing for me?" He waited for a moment, knowing a response wouldn't come, but he waited anyways. "Can you just make all of this made up? Could you please be there in the morning complaining about Mycroft or a case you couldn't finish? Could you be there with your nicotine patches and coffee and deductions and weird little habits and suits and science? Could you do that? For me." John turned his head to look back at the letters engraved so perfectly into the gray stone he was leaning against. "Could you give me one more miracle Sherlock? Please, just, d-" He choked on the lump that formed in his throat, cutting himself off with a long drink from the bottle of alcohol before he started crying and leaned forward to put his head on his knees, groaning. "Shit, I can't ask you that. Dammit.” Closing his eyes as his head started throbbing, he took a few deep breaths, scolding himself inside of his head for getting worked up when he really didn’t want to.

“You can say it John.” The hallucination Sherlock stepped forward, kneeling in front of the rumpled figure sitting next to a grave. "Say it John. Just say it."

John shook his head, putting the bottle of whiskey to his lips and sipping at it, each gulp adding to the swaying feeling in his brain. "I can't. I can't ask him something like that."

The hallucination scowled. "Why can't you ask John? You already asked for him to be there. Why can't you ask him to be-"

"SHUT UP! ShutUpShutUpShutUpShutUp!" John tried to take another sip of his drink, but missed the lip of the bottle and caused the glass of it to hit him in the cheek. "I can't ask him."

The hallucination got right up into John's face, glaring in a way that the real Sherlock never had. "Why!"

John frowned. "I just can't."

"Tell me! TELL ME WHY!" The hallucination slammed its hands on either side of John's body. "Tell me why you asked him to be at the flat in the morning but refused to ask him something as simple as being ALIVE!"

John closed his eyes as not to scream at a hallucination, tilting back the bottle and draining it almost completely. Something inside him told him that it was not a good idea and mentioned something about alcohol poisoning, but he brushed it off to focus on drowning out the annoying hallucination in front of him. "I don't know why."

The hallucination growled low and threatening. "Yes you do. I'm in your mind. Now tell me."

John felt his stomach clench, threatening to spill, so he got up from the ground, passing right through the furious imaginary Sherlock. "I can't because I CAN'T! So shut UP about it already!" 

"Why! Why! Why!" 

John spun to face the illusion, nearly falling over from intoxication. "I can't say 'please, just don't be dead' to him because I don't know if he will actually come back or not and he PROMISED! He PROMISED ME and I want him back! How could he leave me like this? How could he leave me at all!" John started pacing back and forth, tears in his eyes as he pulled at his hair in a fit of desperate sorrow. "I want his death to just be some elaborate hoax because I can't stand being alive without him! I need it to be fake! I need HIM! I lost my will to live back in Afghanistan when I watched all of my friends die and I couldn't do anything! He gave me back my purpose and now that he's dead, that purpose is gone with him because I'm just a doctor that never came back from the war! Nobody else wanted a broken surgeon with a limp! Nobody else wanted to fix a shattered man! Nobody but him would care about me! He wasn't what I wanted, none of it was what I wanted, but he was what I needed! I needed him and I still need him because SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES IS MY BEST FRIEND AND I LO- v- v- hn-"

John fell silent, sniffing as he choked on his quiet sobs, hiding his wet face in his hands. The hallucination Sherlock grinned evilly. "Coward. Did you ever think I wanted you either?"

John screamed past the blurred sight, spinning head, throbbing body, and guilt in the pit of his stomach. "LEAVE ME ALONE! I DON'T NEED YOU! I NEED HIM! I NEED SHERLOCK! I WANT MY SHERLOCK! I WANT MY SHERLOCK HOLMES BACK! PLEASE! PLEASE SHERLOCK! PLEASE JUST COME BACK! SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! PLEASE!"

The hallucination glared furiously, his face comforting into pure fury. "SHUT UP! I'm not coming back John! You made sure of that! You were too useless and ordinary to convince me not to jump so why should I come back for you? It was your fault John. You. Weren't. Worth. It." With that, the hallucination disappeared into thin air, leaving John to sob quietly to himself.

He stumbled over to a tree a couple yards away, feeling as if he was on a boat in the middle of a storm, nearly falling down until his legs gave out from underneath him and he vomited into the grass. 

Fuck.

John felt his head spinning, his brain melted and sloshing around inside of his skull as he struggled to keep himself up on his hands and knees, his face sticky with tears. Everything was so confusing, he needed something to drink. His skin felt too tight. He needed water, not more alcohol, stupid mistake. Were his clothes really that uncomfortable? He leaned against a tree as his head pounded a rhythm into the rest of his body. Damn, he needed a doctor. He was a doctor. What would a doctor do? Not drink enough to get alcohol poisoning first of all. Seizures? Large risk of respiratory arrest. Blacking out was inevitable. Vomit again. No dangerous objects around when losing consciousness. Felt too hot. Take off jacket. NO! High risk of hypothermia, keep as much warmth as possible. More vomit. Low blood pressure. Slowing heartbeat. Breathing becoming… difficult. Mind sluggish. Vomit. Breathing. Focus on breathing. Count breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Vomit. Five. Six. Seven. Vomit. Eight. Nine. Vomit. Ten. Vomit. Too much. That was bad. Uncontrolled. Not stopping. Can't breathe correctly. Heart..… slowing. Not enough oxygen. Breathing… stopping. Breathe. One….. Two……. Three…………. Stop. Blackout inevitable. Blackout happening. Lack of air. Dying. Dying. Heartbeat. One. Two. Three. Force breathing. Breath…….. One. Good. One. Two. Better. One………….. Two. Not good. One. Leg was twitching. One. Shoulder hurts. One. Panic. One… One.. One. One. One. Give. Up. Your. Fault. He. Died. Your. Fault. You. Didn't. Stop. Him. From. Falling. Useless. Idiot. Dull. Stupid. Not. Worth. It. Blackout. Smell… rosemary? Sherlock? Rosemary. 

Sherlock always kept rosemary in the pocket of his black coat.

  
  


* * *

As a symbol of friendship, loyalty, and **_remembrance,_ ** rosemary is traditionally carried by mourners at funerals. Rosemary was also often entwined into a wreath, dipped in scented water and worn by the bride on her wedding day as a symbol of love and fidelity.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Geraniums for Greg Lestrade**

John woke up with a burning sensation in his throat and nose, slightly opening his eyes to see where he was. From what he could grasp through his sluggish and nearly unresponsive state, he was in a hospital. He could hear the steady beep of the heart monitor and a slight sound of air being pushed through a tube, but there was nothing else to suggest someone besides him was in the room. He tried to swallow down the pain in his throat, but there was something blocking the way. He nearly groaned from the realization that the next few days were going to be wholly unpleasant because he had been intubated with most likely a ventilator through his nose and a suction hose down his mouth. He searched through his fogged up brain for any information on what had happened, but he could only grasp a few things about his current situation. He needed to make a list, clear his brain of the cobwebs a bit.

John closed his eyes again, trying to mentally record everything. There was a tube in his nose, taped to his face, so that meant he had gone into respiratory arrest to such a severe degree that he needed assistance breathing through the night. There was another tube propping open his mouth and taped to his cheek, most likely the one that was used to decompress the stomach to reduce the risk of vomiting and blocking the airways again. An IV drip was attached to his hand, probably just saline to dilute the alcohol content of his blood. Due to the level of precautions taken, he probably had a Blood Alcohol Concentration of more than 0.399%, but he didn't die, so less than 0.50%. Lucky him. The room he was in was for patients that would be staying for a few days, a week or two at most, and there was a television in the corner and a few chairs surrounding a wooden table with a book and cheap coffee cup resting on top next to a pitcher of water. From the look of it, the coffee hadn't been there for long, no more than ten minutes it would seem based on the lingering intensity of the smell, so someone had been in the room and was planning to come back. Most likely Greg since Mrs. Hudson preferred tea, Molly despised coffee, and Mycroft wouldn't be caught dead in a hospital if he didn't need to, much less drink something that cost less than twenty pounds. Also, the book was Encyclopedia Brown. Who else but Greg would read American children's mysteries for fun? Mycroft? Not a chance.

"Oh, Doctor Watson." A kind looking blonde woman had come through the door dressed as a nurse. "We weren't expecting you to wake up for another few hours or else someone would have been here."

John tried to respond, but his throat hurt and there were two tubes blocking the way.

She smiled at his attempt at speaking politely, moving to the side of the hospital bed and pressing the button to tilt him up into more of a sitting position. "You probably shouldn't try talking until I get these tubes out. I would tell you that you'll feel some discomfort, but you're a doctor and probably know how painful it actually is."

John smiled softly, still drowsy and trying to laugh at the first joke he had heard in months, maybe even a whole year. Sherlock wasn't the type for joking around much and everyone else that regularly saw them usually was at a crime scene or mortuary or someplace where it was highly inappropriate to laugh. He quickly stopped smiling though when the tubes started coming out. The feeling was horrible and made him nearly pass out from the revolting feeling of having something pulled from your trachea. 

When the nurse was done, she got John a glass of water from the table to ease the ache in his throat. "Don't drink too much at one time, we don't want you throwing up again."

John nodded, sipping the water slowly and letting it slide down the back of his throat to lessen the burning feeling. "Thank you." He coughed a couple times, not ready for the dry cracking of his throat when he spoke, the nurse quickly coming closer and helping him sit up the rest of the way so he didn't choke.

"Are you alright Doctor Watson?" She rested a hand on John's arm lightly, waiting for him to nod before pulling away again. He took a few more sips of water, feeling a little dehydrated at the moment, and leaned back again, closing his eyes for a few seconds.

"Thank you." John cleared his throat a bit, getting used to the cracked feeling and creaky sound of his own voice. "Could I have the reports of the treatment please?"

The nurse nodded. "Of course Doctor Watson, but first I need to ask you a few questions." She paused, looking at John's pale face. "Is that okay? You can always rest for a few hours. Nobody really expects too much right now since you're supposed to be asleep."

John peeked at the nurse's name badge before looking back up into her eyes. "It is completely fine with me if it is alright with you Miss Morstan." 

Miss Morstan smiled softly. "Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask questions now if you're just going to go back to sleep for a while anyway." She looked down at a clipboard John hadn't noticed her take into the room and picked up a pen. "Are you ready?" He nodded. "Can you recall your date of birth?"

"3-31-80. March 31st, 1980."

"How old were you when you first got drunk?"

"Seventeen years old."

"How much do you usually drink? Have you ever been this affected?"

"I don't drink often, only a glass or two at the most on special occasions. I have never passed out or become unable to walk at any point in time while intoxicated."

Miss Morstan nodded, scribbling away at her papers. "Have you ever used drugs or smoked cigarettes?"

John shook his head. "I've never used drugs in my life and I don't like the thought or cigarette smoke in my lungs, so no. I don't smoke or do drugs."

Miss Morstan grinned. "That's good. It isn't the healthiest lifestyle." Her smile faltered a little bit when she looked down at her clipboard, so John guessed that they were getting to more unpleasant matters. "Alright Doctor Watson, we're almost done. Just a few more questions, okay?"

John nodded. "Yeah. I know what you're going to ask. I've asked more people than I care to mention the same questions."

Miss Morstan frowned. "Oh. Yes, of course. You are a doctor after all." She paused for a moment. "So, have you ever tried to take your life before?"

John paused, not wanting to share the information, but knowing how annoying it was when patients lied about important things that could change the outcome of an appointment. "Yes."

Miss Morstan looked down at her clipboard, checking a box, before gently pressing a hand onto John's hand. "Tell me about it?"

John took a deep breath. "I tried once when I was fifteen, then once more about two and a half years ago." He left out the bit about trying to jump off the roof a few weeks ago.

Miss Morstan wrote something onto her paper, quickly placing her hand gently back on top of John's. "Do you remember the events leading you to the cemetery?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"Were you attempting to take your own life?"

"No. I didn't know how much I was drinking."

"So it was an accident?"

"Yes."

"Are you depressed at all?"

"Yes."

"Suicidal?"

"Sometimes."

"Has there been any recent developments in your life that could have caused this act?"

"Have you been on the internet in the past two months?"

"Yes."

"Then you should already know."

Miss Morstan fell silent, tapping her pen lightly against the clipboard. "You're the John Watson that was friends with Sherlock Holmes, the detective being called fake all over the news."

It wasn't a question, but John answered anyway. "That's me." He paused for a few seconds. "Did you believe what the papers said?"

Miss Morstan shrugged. "I'm not sure what to believe, but I do know that it would have taken a genius to fake all of what he did, so it immediately means that he's smart either way. I didn't know him so I shouldn't be one to judge his behavior or question his actions, but I personally believe that he helped people in his own way and the papers can shove their stories up their own bloody asses."

John attempted to smile softly, gently squeezing her hand. "Thank you Miss Morstan. That means a lot."

Miss Morstan smiled and squeezed his hand back. "Please, call me Mary."

John smiled back genuinely. "Well Mary, I hope we can get to know each other better in the future."

Mary grinned brightly, writing a few notes onto the papers in front of her and handing John the clipboard. "I hope we can too." He took the clipboard from her, smiling softly as she walked away, throwing him a little wave. "I look forward to working with you Doctor Watson."

John wiggled a few fingers at her in a sort of half wave as she walked out the door and looked down at the papers in his hand the very second she disappeared into the hall. The sheet of questions rested on top, recording the answers he had given Mary with neat black writing almost word for word. He flipped through the pages, gathering that he was currently at the hospital he worked at, having been taken to the hospital by ambulance after being found by Detective Lestrade in the cemetery. The detective had found him over 24 hours ago, calling the emergency line at exactly 1:39 am after getting an anonymous text that John was in the graveyard and was in danger. There was plenty of evidence as to what happened, an empty bottle of whiskey for example, so the correct measures were taken. John had gone into respiratory arrest due to his gag reflex shutting down and filling his airway with vomit, so a ventilation tube was inserted through the nose to keep oxygen flowing into his lungs and a small suction tube was placed into his stomach to eliminate the risk of more bile blocking his breathing. The tubes were due to finally be taken out a few hours before John woke up from his medically induced coma, but nobody really expected him to wake up before the medicine fully wore off. He was going to guess that it had something to do with the massive amount of stress his body had been put under in the past few weeks. It could have also been faulty measurements, but the name listed on the papers told him that Mary had been taking care of him for the past six hours and he doubted that she would be the type of person to miss something as important as a mistake in the medical records, so he chose to continue looking through the papers instead of dwelling on the fact that such a beautiful woman might be a bit of an airhead despite being a nurse. There was some paperwork to fill out, but he would have to check over it later when he was more awake since his blurry brain could only think about ducks and he really didn't want one of his coworkers to see that he might have signed his name Johnald Duck. That would take some explaining and he would never live it down. On April first, his name badge would probably read Dr. Johnald Watson Duck M.D. and it would take even longer for the joke to die. 

John sighed, closing his eyes and letting his arms fall down heavily onto his blanket, sending a faint smell of rosemary into the air. His eyes snapped open immediately, sitting up and looking down at his lap where there was a black woolen blanket. Not a blanket.

Coat.

Black coat.

Black woolen coat.

Black woolen coat that smelled of rosemary.

Black woolen coat that smelled of  _ Sherlock _ .

John threw the clipboard off of the bed, sending it to the ground with a loud clatter so that he could grab the coat. He felt his fingertips brush over the fabric for a single second before he grabbed two giant fistfulls and pulled it up to his chest, pressing his face deep into the folds of the coat so he could fill that missing piece. The coat smelled like the rosemary Sherlock always kept in his inside left pocket and the light body wash that cost a silly amount of money but John loved the smell of whenever Sherlock used it. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke that was impossible to remove as it had been woven into the fabric years ago and like the laundry soap that Sherlock had used too much of one time and ended up flooding Mrs. Hudson's kitchen with bubbles. It smelled like the hair product that Sherlock swore he didn't use, but kept under the sink and the mix of seventeen different types of cologne that he used in a random order so nobody could recognize his scent. It smelled like wood smoke from the time Sherlock had hung it too close to the fire after running through the rain for no reason other than to get himself soaked like a child and it smelled like the London fog that they ran through on many cases. It smelled like Sherlock's coffee he drank when he thought nobody was looking that he poured into a giant purple "warrior mom" mug and added exactly three and a half tablespoons of sugar to, and it smelled like Sherlock's violin. It smelled like Sherlock, but it also smelled metallic like blood and salty like tears. John couldn't help but hug the fabric closer, burying his face farther into the fabric as tears slipped down his cheeks. 

When the door was thrown open, John looked up quickly, his eyes blurred with tears. "Sherlock?"

John heard a sigh that decidedly wasn't his flatmate and quickly wiped his eyes as Greg Lestrade walked over to the side of the hospital bed. "Sorry mate. He's not actually here." The detective pulled over a chair, sitting down and leaning onto the mattress to look at John with red rimmed eyes and dark shadows marking his eyes as a sign of his sleepless nights. He placed a soft hand onto John's leg lightly, avoiding touching any part of the coat, and grinned sadly. "The last of the legal stuff was wrapped up yesterday and the day before so I pulled a couple strings on my side to get this for you. It would have gone to his parents otherwise, but I thought you might need it more." He fell silent for a few moments to wipe away the sleep from his eyes before blinking a few tears away. "I had spent a few days trying to get it, but I guess it took longer than I hoped because next thing you know, I'm finally holding it in my hands and I get a text from some random number telling me that you were next to Sh- his grave, trying to drown yourself in booze." Lestrade covered his face with his hands as his eyes became watery, his voice breaking with the tears that threatened to spill over the edge. "What were you thinking John? Why didn't you come to us for help?" He rubbed his eyes, wiping at the tears on his cheeks. "Why did you drink so much? We're you trying to kill yourself by getting alcohol poisoning or was that just an accident?"

John felt his stomach lurch with guilt as he looked at Greg who had done so much. "Greg, I'm so sor-"

"Stop! No, please just don't say that." Greg sniffed hard, wiping furiously at his eyes. "I can't hear any more apologies John, I just want you to talk to me, so tell me why. Why were you carrying a  _ gun _ while getting pissed? Please, just tell me why it's this bad."

John pulled his knees up to his chest so he could curl protectively around the coat just in case Greg wanted to take it away. "He's my best friend."

Lestrade pressed his fingers into his eyes, sobbing and shaking his head. "God, John! You can't do this just because he was your friend! It's not healthy and you've got to find some reason to live. Please!"

John frowned and looked away so he wouldn't have to see Greg's reaction to the words coming from his mouth. "I did find a reason to live, but Sherlock's the one who has it and right now he's six feet under ground where I want to be."

Lestrade started sobbing in his chair, crumbling into quite the broken man. "Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped in some way, any way."

"You can't help me Greg. You don't know-"

"How it feels?" Greg slammed his hand down on the armrest of his chair, tears leaving tracks down his face. "Don't you dare say I don't know how it feels! I know exactly how it feels John! I lost my wife seven years ago and she took my daughter with her to the other side of the ocean and half way across the world so I would never be able to see my own child again. I know exactly what pain feels like, but I have lived with it every single day without anyone there to help me because I know that my little girl wouldn't want to have a drunkard for a father while she grew up, but I rather her have a broke detective father to fall back on if something happened to her mother than have to go into the foster system because I let myself die!" He rubbed his eyes with his arm furiously, leaving wet streaks on his sleeve. "Listen to me, I still didn't have anything to live for until Sherlock, but I had a good job that put me into a position where I could save a poor twenty five year old who I found sitting in a gutter overdosed on who knows what and that was fine by me for the next four years. Sherlock saves the lives of people who need it without even knowing that he does it most of the time and he certainly saved mine, so I  _ know _ how he saved yours. I'm not going to let that go to waste you hear me? There's a small little part of you that is the last thing I have of Sherlock and I'm not going to let that go easily, even if it drives me to an early grave." Greg sat up as straight as he possibly could, wiping away the tears in his eyes and he grabbed John's hand through the coat. "So you better listen to me good John, you either stay here or I go too. If you take pills, I'm taking them right next to you, if you drink, you better have a second bottle, if you go with a gun, there better be two bullets, and if you jump off of a building, I'll be damned if there aren't two bodies hitting the cement."

John felt hot pinpricks behind his eyes as he held back the emotion that created a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry Greg. I didn't know that he meant that much to you too. I'm so sorry."

Greg got up to sit on the edge on John's hospital bed, leaning over to wrap the shaking doctor into his arms, both of them just letting the silent tears fall.

  
  
  


* * *

Saying your  **_sorry_ ** can be hard, which is why you might want to turn to a geranium bouquet to do it for you since the geranium if the symbol for acknowledged stupidity and folly.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

** Purple Hyacinth During A Proposal **

John sat in a bar, hidden away in a dim corner booth staring at a bottle of scotch and waiting for the company that would be coming soon. “John!” He looked up and waved Greg Lestrade over to hand the detective a glass before he sat down.

“Hey Greg. How’ve you been since we last saw each other?” John poured himself a glass after Greg filled his own.

“Well, it’s been about two and a half weeks, but we recently had a break in the case thanks to you.” Greg sipped sparingly at his drink to talk to John. “You were right about the boyfriend drowning her before he tried to cover his tracks.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, he really should have left her in the water for a few hours before calling the police. Don’t people know what happens when you spend three hours in the tub? You get all wrinkly.”

Greg smiled softly, swirling around his drink a bit. “You’ve been picking up his little habit I see.”

John shook his head. “I haven’t been picking up anything from Sherlock, I’ve actually been to classes and reading some articles online. You know, reading over old cases and looking through his files to see how he did things. I’ve picked up a lot of random information about dolphins though and memorized the meaning of all sorts of flowers, but the thing I’m proudest of is knowing more about the universe than Sherlock even if it is just the names of a few stars and constellations.”

Greg snickered into his drink, unable to wipe the smile from his face. “I’ve seen him pretty high before, and I’ve got to tell you he’s really loose lipped when he’s on drugs. I’m sure that he once talked to me about the stars, telling me hundreds of different facts within the three hours that we spent together on a case before I finally just knocked him out and figured out everything he told me was utter bullshit. I was completely convinced that the Hubble telescope wasn’t broken and took the first picture of a black hole back in 2004, but I still have my doubts even now.”

John grinned and shook his head in disbelief. “It’s easy for him to convince people of so many different things, it just takes a few fake facts and you’re wrapped around his little finger, but he actually has his reasons for deleting anything he learns about the universe.” Greg raised a questioning eyebrow while pouring himself another glass of scotch. “I think I finally annoyed him to the point of telling me because I just couldn’t get an answer out of him and I just kept asking and asking.” John tipped back his glass, sipping at it slowly. “I asked him why he deleted all of the information he gained about the stars and he told me that he didn’t want the facts to get in the way. He wanted to be able to look up at the sky every night and feel the same way he did when he first saw them when he was a kid. He told me that the stars were too beautiful to cover with dull facts, so he just didn’t learn about them so that they would never become dull pinpricks of light.”

Greg laughed. “Only Sherlock Holmes would think learning about something would make it boring. He has always been an enigma wrapped in a riddle.” he sighed and then something seemed to occur to him. “While on the topic of Sherlock, have you seen him recently?”

John shrugged. “I always do. Three days ago I saw him as a man walking a dog and a week before that he was sitting on the couch next to Mary while she was reading.”

Greg rubbed his chin with his hand. “So the hallucinations are getting better at least. Do they still talk to you sometimes?” John nodded and Greg tapped the table a few times. “You’re still going to your therapist, right?”

“Yeah, it’s helping a lot actually, I have only seen the hallucinations a few times since I last saw you and he only talked to me once, complaining that we had run out of milk, so that was a good reminder to pick some up before Mary got home. It gets worse whenever I go back to the flat to visit Mrs. Hudson, but it never gets as bad as the cemetery was.” John shrugged, not really wanting to talk about it, but it was important if he was going to move through it.

Greg smiled. “That’s really good John. Sherlock would be really proud of you.”

“What would that freak be proud of?” John turned to glare at Sally Donovan as Greg just slumped in his chair, staring at her in distaste while hiding his hatred behind his glass.

“Sally.” Phillip Anderson grabbed her arm with a frown. “We came out to get a drink after the Coldwel case, we didn’t come to start a fight over someone who has been missing for two years.”

Donovan just rolled her eyes, slipping into the booth next to Greg and John glared at her for a few moments before scooting over for Anderson to sit down. “Come on Phillip, why did you invite her?” John frowned as Donovan glared at him.

Anderson shrugged. “I didn’t, she invited herself and I couldn’t shake her.” He sighed, grabbing the last glass off the table and pouring himself a heavy amount of scotch. “I don’t know if you want to talk about the reservation in front of her or not, I know you didn’t want too many people knowing about tomorrow and she is a massive gossip.”

“Hey!” Donovan glared at Anderson furiously, crossing her arms over her chest. “I am not a gossip and I’m right here. Stop talking as if I threw myself off a roof.”

Everyone at the table went silent as John froze, all of them waiting for what he would do. After a few moments, he relaxed a bit, no longer holding himself back. “Sorry about that, I had to keep myself from removing Donovan’s mandible with a few quick hits of my Pollex, Digitus Secundus Manus, Digitus Medius, Digitus Annularis, and Digitus Minimus Manus.” Only Greg laughed at the doctor joke, most likely since he actually recognised over half of the scientific names John had listed from all the time spent in the mortuary with Sherlock and John.

Greg tried to stop smiling, but he kept snickering as Donovan glared daggers and Anderson kept his face in a practiced blank look, the sides of his mouth twitching just barley suggesting a smile. “What does that mean?” Donovan frowned at Anderson who quickly cleared his throat and looked away from her steely gaze. She turned to Greg who had been reduced to laughing like a mad man at the fact that she should know what John had said if she ever took highschool biology. He just looked away, covering his mouth and storting into his fist as not to disturb the whole bar with his laughing. She just huffed, stood up and put her hands on her hips. “You’re so immature. How can boys stand each other?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s probably just you three that are this horrible because you actually believe that the freak deserved to live.”

John slammed his hand on the table loudly, jumping up and standing on his seat, causing the whole bar to fall silent as he pointed directly at Donovan, angling the attention towards her. “If you call Sherlock a freak again, I swear to god I’ll steal your patellas and carve out your clavicle with your own scapula, now BEGONE!”

Donovan released a loud disgusted noise as she turned bright red in embarrassment and gathered as much dignity she could to stomp out of the bar. When she was gone, the bartender let out a long whistle into the silent bar, clapping and quickly being joined by dozens of people, clapping and cheering as John took a bow and sat back down next to Anderson. There was a reason the three of them met in this specific bar almost every Friday night, most of the reason being that over half of the regulars illegally spray painted hundreds of messages over the last two years saying “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” on random buildings and signs. All three of them personally knew the bartender named Matt, but if anyone asked about the giant Sherlock flag that made its way to the top of Big Ben for a whole week before anyone could figure out how to get it down, there was no such person. The flag had been the main area of news articles all over the world for a long while, probably courtesy of a certain someone that definitely wasn’t the mysterious client from the Scandal in Belgravia case. John looked across the table to smile at Greg, but the detective was gone. “Phillip, where’s Greg?”

Anderson laughed a little, leaning over the table and snickering. “He started laughing so hard that he needed to lay down for a bit, I’m pretty sure he died when you told Sally you were going to steal her kneecaps and take her shoulder blades.”

John leaned over the table to look at Greg who was laying on the seat, laughing so hard that the only noises he made where wheezes and he held his stomach in pain. “Greg. Greg, if you don’t breathe you’re going to die.” That just caused Greg to laugh harder, one long wheeze telling him that he was running out of breath until he started coughing and gasping for air, sending both John and Anderson into laughing fits. “Greg you bloody moron. Only you would run a risk of dying from laughter.”

Greg sat up, wiping away the tears on his face as he laughed a few more times, smiling before pouring himself a glass and sighing to catch his breath. “So, John what did you actually say with all of that doctor speak, I maybe caught half of it.”

John smiled, sipping his drink slowly as he thought of what to say. “Honestly, I just said that I had to restrain myself from punching her jaw off.”

Anderson snickered, pouring himself another heavy glass and leaning back in his seat comfortably. “So, John, I’ve got the reservation for tomorrow under the name Watson at exactly seven thirty, so you better be there.”

John nodded. “Yes. Thank you Phillip. I’ll make sure that I’ll be there.”

Greg smiled, sniffing and wiping at his eyes. “I’m so proud of you John! So different from the single bachelor you were when you met Sherlock and all it took was a very unhealthy drinking binge to put you in the hospital where you found the woman of your dreams.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sure thing Greg. I work with her it would have just been a matter of time…” He paused to look near the door of the bar, locking eyes with someone who believed themselves to be hiding. John looked into the bright multicolored eyes filled with shock and he quickly smiled, throwing them a tiny wave before turning back to Greg, watching out of the corner of his eye as they quietly slipped out the door. “Ah, sorry. Anyway, it would have just been a matter of time until I met Mary since I work with her, so maybe we could have met on better terms where she didn’t have to pull tubes out of my face.”

Greg glanced over to the door where John had been looking. “You see someone you recognise John?”

“Nah. It was just him again.” John shrugged and Anderson and Greg nodded, understanding.

“So, where was he this time?” Anderson poured himself another glass and started to sip at it.

John just frowned. “I saw Sherlock over by the door. It was sort of strange though, he left through the door instead of just disappearing like usual and he wasn’t wearing the coat like normal.”

Greg smiled. “Maybe that was his ghost come to haunt you.”

Anderson scoffed. “Greg you moron, that wasn’t his ghost. Sherlock wouldn’t have a ghost if he’s still out there.”

Greg and Anderson then got into a debate about theories and possibilities of Sherlock being alive while John just stared at the door, thinking. Sherlock had been wearing one of his white button ups and a pair of black jeans, but his hair was shorter than usual, not to mention combed instead of the mess he usually had. The thing that bothered John though was that no matter how many times Sherlock appeared, he always wore the coat. This time he wasn’t and he looked surprised when John made eye contact. Finally he just let it go as a trick of the light and turned back to his drink, only a few sips gone from it, and pushed it away as not to get drunk or start seeing more of Sherlock. 

John talked with Anderson and Greg for a few more hours until midnight before calling both of his wasted friends their respective cabs and paying the drivers in advance before calling his own cab and returning to the home he shared with Mary.

John spent the whole next day with Mary, making her breakfast and taking her out for coffee and lunch, spending time with her until seven when he took her to dinner at the Landmark Hotel, forever the unexpecting fool.

John was just sitting at the table, waiting for Mary to come back as he snapped the red velvet box open and shut, the diamond ring glimmering in the faint light whenever the box opened. As he studied the box, a waiter came over, looking just barely out of place as if he wasn’t used to serving tables. “Can I help you with anything sir?”

John bit his lip, nearly groaning out loud. Today had obviously been too stressful; he had been seeing and hearing Sherlock everywhere and now it was Sherlock’s voice coming out of the mouth of some french man. “Actually, yes you can.” John put down the box and picked up a champagne menu. “I’m looking for a good bottle of champagne.”

The waiter nodded and ran a finger down the list. “Hmm. Well, these are all excellent vintages.”

John nodded politely. “Ah, yes, well it's not really my area. What do you suggest?”

The waiter cleared his throat, becoming rather impatient. “Well, you can not possibly go wrong, but if you want my personal recommendation?" John nodded again. "The last one on the list is a favorite of mine. Almost like a face from the past.” The waiter stood up straight, drawing John’s eyes up to his face and he immediately looked back down to the menu. A face from the past was right, the waiter even looked like Sherlock. Maybe today wasn’t such a good day to propose. No. It was now or never. John had to propose to Mary today, he already had the ring and the restaurant, all he needed to do was get through this and get the champagne. 

“That’s great, then I’ll have that one.” John didn’t know what he was doing wrong, he could practically feel the impatience radiating off the waiter.

“Well, it is familiar, but with a quality of surprise.” Great, now the waiter was annoyed. What was happening?

“Surprise me then.” John snapped a little at the waiter, his nerves being blown out of the water by the annoyed waiter.

The waiter frowned, dropping the French accent. "I've certainly been trying." Then he walked away, grabbing John's menu impolitely.

"What did I ever do to you?" John frowned, staring at the back of the waiter's head.

"What was that?" John's head snapped around to the seat in front of him as Mary sat down, wondering what he said.

"Oh nothing, just an impatient waiter. I couldn't make up my mind." John took a deep breath while looking at the woman he was about to propose to and smiled at her, feeling a rush of adrenaline urging him on. “Mary?” He quickly grabbed the ring box before she could see it, holding it just under the table.

Mary looked into his eyes, seeing his nervous smile and blushing. “Yes?”

John swallowed thickly, chuckling before licking his lips and tapping the table nervously. “Er, so… Mary. Listen, erm… I know it hasn’t been long… I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time, and as you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you. Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened… to, um… me."

"I agree."

John blinked a few times in surprise. "What?"

Mary smiled. "I agree that I'm the best thing that could have ever happened to you." She looked at John's confused face and screwed up her nose apologetically. "Sorry. Please keep going."

John smiled sheepishly. "Oh no, don't apologize, you're fine." He took a deep breath, looking into her eyes and gathering courage. "So, Mary… if you would have me, could you see your way… could you ever see yourself being my wi-"

"Sir, I think you will find this vintage exceptionally to your liking." The waiter was back. 

"-iii ffffuuuucccckkkk." John let his head fall to the table as Mary snorted at the unfortunate timing, covering her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. 

The waiter continued, holding a bottle in front of John who lifted his head to look at Mary who couldn't stop smiling. "It has all of the qualities of the old, with some of the color with the new."

John grimaced. "Not now please."

"It's like a gaze from a crowd of strangers."

"Not right now please."

"And then suddenly one is aware that they are staring into the face of an old friend."

John finally looked up at the waiter with a glare. "Could you please just-" John froze, looking into multicolored eyes filled with pain.

"I didn't think you would forget me." Sherlock let his face fall blank, taking his sleeve and rubbing at the mustache drawn onto his face.

John let his eyes flicker over to Mary, her eyes wide, staring at him and mouthing "Sherlock Holmes?" He suddenly snapped out of his shock and stood up, nearly knocking over the table. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled uneasily. "John."

John took a deep breath, looking around desperately at the restaurant around him, leaning heavily on the table as tears filled his eyes. "No, no this isn't real. You aren't real, this isn't you. You can't be alive, your dead. I'm dreaming. I'm drunk. Maybe I'm high. You're not here."

Sherlock frowned, grabbing John's hands and yanking him forward, placing his rough palms on either side of his own head. "I'm real John. You can touch me, so I've got to be real."

John bit his lip to keep it from trembling as he curled his fingers around strands of the dark hair, lightly tugging before letting go and cupping Sherlock's pale cheeks in the palms of his hands. "Oh christ." He quickly backed away, pressing a hand to his mouth, pain shimmering in his eyes, tears spilling over onto his cheeks.

Sherlock winced, clearly feeling guilty about just popping up out of nowhere. "I guess it's a bit mean, springing it on you like this. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense it was very funny." He chuckled nervously as John dropped back into his seat, halfway to sobbing. "Okay. Bad defense and no longer funny. It's starting to get really not funny John."

"YOU." Sherlock turned to face an angry Mary, questioningly pointing at himself. "Do you have any idea what you've done to him? Or are you such a bloody arrogant psychopath that you just let him suffer through your death all alone?"

Sherlock's face went white as he slowly stepped closer to John who was still trying not to start sobbing in the middle of the Landmark. "So, um… John. I'm suddenly realizing that I might owe you some sort of apology."

John took a sharp breath, anger surging through him as he slammed his fist on the table and stood up to face Sherlock. "Two years." He was furious, murder written all over his face. "I thought… I  _ knew _ you were dead for two years, and you just let me believe that? You let me grieve? You let me cry over your grave? How could you do that Sherlock? How could you do that to ME, your colleague, your partner, your FRIEND."

Sherlock looked down at the ground and bit his lip. "John. I-"

"How." John's voice broke as he struggled to keep the tears at bay.

Sherlock shrugged, mouth twitching in a hidden smile. "I'm so sorry John, I just can't take you seriously right now at all, but before you do anything you regret, I really need to ask you something important." He paused, grinning with just a little bit of panic hidden behind the smile. "Are you really going to keep the mustache?"

John shook his head slowly, turning to Mary and smiling ruthlessly. She pressed her lips together, fighting off a scared laugh, and reached for John. "John, sweetheart, you're going to regret this."

John shook his head. "No chance in hell." Then he turned back to Sherlock and tackled him to the ground, slamming his head into the floor multiple times. 

* * *

Purple hyacinth is the flower most commonly used to symbolize  **_regret_ ** .

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Mary Morstan's Lotus Blossoms**

Sherlock frowned at the floor of the cafe that they had moved to after getting kicked out of the Landmark. He knew that he was going to have a slight limp from where John had kneed him hard in a large bruise on his thigh that he got from being tortured a day or two earlier, but he couldn't complain. It wasn't much pain compared to the whip marks on his back that were screaming and distracting him. He was unable to comprehend what he did wrong to make John upset back in the restaurant. He had executed the dramatic reunion, assured John that he was indeed alive, apologized to him for faking his death, felt guilty about lying, (a horrible feeling, really) and cracked a joke at the end to lighten the mood, so where,  _ where _ ,  **_where_ ** had he messed up? Maybe he hadn't been sincere enough with the apology? Did he even apologize correctly? Maybe he had taken it too far with the disguise or maybe it would have been better to wait for John back in his flat? Was it the joke about the mustache? Try a different joke next time just to be safe. Sherlock really did like it, but it made John look older, as if it had been longer than the agonizingly slow two years it took to dismantle Moriarty's network. It made it look like he had moved on too far and would never come back again, so Sherlock tried to pull him back into the thick of things, explaining his train of thought. He never explained anything of importance if he could help it, but he wanted John to understand the reasoning behind faking his own death, so he had to explain his plans to John. 

"You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick." John stopped Sherlock's explaining mid sentence, scowling lightly as he sat next to Mary.

"What?" Sherlock flinched a bit, not visibly, but it would have been obvious if John wasn't so mad. What was he doing wrong now? Was there something that he missed in his explanations? 

"I don't care how you faked it Sherlock." John sighed. "I just want to know why."

Sherlock had just explained this! "Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped."

"Not that." John leaned back in his seat, glaring.

Sherlock was so confused. "Then what? Why you were the one to see? Why I went up to the roof knowing that I would probably die? Why I left you? Why didn't I tell you I was alive? What do you want from me John?"

John glared darkly before speaking. "All of those would be nice. I've got all night."

Sherlock sighed. "Actually, um… all of the secrecy was mostly Mycroft's idea."

John clenched his fists above the table angrily. "Why am I not surprised that all of this was your brother's idea?" He shook his head slowly in disbelief, still furious. "Who else knows?"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, not knowing if he should actually answer that question or stay silent. "Just a couple of others."

John glared at Sherlock as he leaned forward, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down the taller man's spine. "Who else?"

"I- uh-"

"Who else knew Sherlock."

"Ju- ah- error."

John leaned closer menacingly, short circuiting Sherlock's brain with panic. "Who."

Sherlock paled under John's gaze, thankful for his practiced blank face so John couldn't see the emotions (eugh) that were hiding under his skin. "Molly?"

John's has clenched in anger. "Only Molly?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "Just Molly Hooper… and a few members of the homeless network."

John sat back, glancing around the cafe in an attempt to calm himself. "So Mycroft, Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps."

Sherlock chuckled, finally having a chance to lighten the mood. He had to try the next joke, staying away from the mustache topic just to be safe. "Not a hundred. Twenty five at most."

Sherlock felt a fist come into contact with his jaw as he was tackled to the ground, his back hitting the corner of the booth. He could feel the stitches tear out of his skin as he laid there on the ground, letting John slam down hit after hit until a few people finally wrestled him off. Sherlock chose to spend a few seconds on the floor as a couple napkins were pressed onto his bleeding lip and he let the pain fade away a little before he stood up with the heavy help of a chair. He grabbed his jacket from the booth where he left it, slipping it on over his hurting limbs with almost nothing to show for the pain except for a few involuntary muscle twitches here or there. As they made their way out of the cafe, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the small limp in his left leg that he was desperately trying to stop before anyone noticed. He was failing miserably of course, causing his leg to throb even worse than it had been before, but he kept the wincing to a minimum, honestly struggling to keep a straight face. He had to keep a slower pace to hide the limp from John, so he arrived at the kebab shop the couple had entered almost a full minute after them, making it obvious that something was wrong, but Sherlock wouldn’t let them know what it was. 

John and Mary were leaning on the counter when Sherlock slowly walked in, so he stood in front of them, shifting his weight off of his hurt leg slightly so he wouldn’t start shaking from the stress he was putting himself under. He had to try another joke, but all he could think about was that mustache. “So.” He paused, preparing himself to be punched again, but he had to make John laugh. Make him smile. “Are you really going to keep the mustache?”

John sighed, leaning back. “Yes, I’m keeping the mustache.”

Sherlock grinned. John hadn’t gotten angry at him, so it was a safe joke topic. A funny topic that could make him laugh if the right comment was made. “You’re sure?”

John let out a small scoff. “Mary likes it.”

Sherlock shook his head. John had scoffed, so almost halfway to an actual laugh. “No she doesn't.”

“She does.”

“She doesn’t.” Sherlock grinned, trying to let John know that he was joking around. Like a regular, normal, NOT sociopathic person.

John turned to Mary who shrugged apologetically. “Great! This is bloody brilliant.”

Mary reached for his arm, stopping before touching him. “I’m sorry John. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

John scoffed, scowling. “No, this is charming.” He gestured at Sherlock with a snarl. “I’ve really missed this.”

Sherlock stopped grinning. He had done something wrong again. He messed up, made John angry. Why did he make John angry, why did he care so much? “John, listen.”

“No. Sherlock, you listen.” John stepped forward, grabbing Sherlock by his jacket and yanking him down to eye height, causing him to lose balance. He was forced to plant both feet to keep from falling down, and it sent a fresh wave of pain through his leg. “One word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive.”

Sherlock looked down at the ground, avoiding John’s eyes. “I’ve nearly been in contact so many times.” John scoffed, letting go of Sherlock and backing up, preparing to receive unwanted information. “I worried about you saying something and I just couldn’t risk it John.”

John scoffed. “So this is my fault. You couldn’t risk me saying something indiscreet and letting the cat out of the bag, is that it? Didn’t want people to know you were alive, so you didn’t tell the one person that actually cared if you had died.”

Sherlock glared, forgetting about his back and standing up at his full height. “That is utterly ridiculous.” None of this was John’s fault, but the fool was reading the situation wrong. If John had given any indication that Sherlock might have been alive, then John would have been killed and Sherlock’s cover would have been blown while hunting Moriarty’s men.

“Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong – the only one reacting like a human being?!” John ran his hands through his hair. 

Mary reached out, touching John’s shoulder. “You’re overreacting.”

John glared at her, then at Sherlock. “Overreacting.” He shook his head, rubbing his chin, then furiously faced Sherlock. “Overreacting?! So you fake your own death…”

Sherlock looked around the shop, their conversation drawing attention as John got louder. “John, quieter.”

“... and then you waltz in here large as bloody life…” 

“John. Shhhhh.”

“... but I’m not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it’s a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!”

“Shut up John! I don’t want everyone knowing that I’m alive!” Sherlock clapped a hand over John’s mouth, but the shorter man immediately removed it.

John was infuriated. “Oh, so it’s still a secret is it?”

Sherlock became snappy as he looked around at the people who were watching them. “Oh course it’s still a secret John, I only wanted you to know. Isn’t that what normal people do in their real lives? Trust others? Have friends? People they like, people they don’t like?”

John sighed, leaning against the counter and losing his anger, slumping a bit in silence. He had recognized the conversation piece from the first case they did together. “What do you want Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down at the ground, ashamed to have used John’s words against him. “London is in danger, John. There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I-” He took a deep breath before rubbing his hand over his hair. “I need your help.”

John rubbed his eyes with his fingers slowly. “Do you really?”

Sherlock blanked for a moment. “Do I really what?”

“Need me.” John just stared at the ground. 

Sherlock took a hesitant step forward towards John, moving to touch him, but thinking he better not and stepping back again. “Of course I need you John.” He lowered his voice gently. “It’s you. Always been you, John Watson. You keep me right.”

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes shifting to Mary and back as he wavered between agreeing and refusing. “Don’t say things like that Sherlock. People might misunderstand. You know. Take it the wrong way?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah, I guess they might. Sorry.”

John shot him a funny look before clearing his throat. “You aren’t trying to deduce me.”

Sherlock lightly shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

“Why?” John drew his eyebrows together in worry.

Sherlock tapped his fingers against his leg silently for a few moments before responding. “Normal people don’t… do that. Not to their friends.”

John frowned. “What are you-”

I need your help. John.” Sherlock cut him off before he could continue. “Come on, you know you miss it. You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world.”

John's face immediately dropped the worried look to settle into infuriated. “You manipulative prick!”

Sherlock became confused as John showed signs of anger. “Wha-” Before he could finish his question, John grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed his forehead into Sherlock’s nose. The force sent a shockwave through his head, snapping it backwards and forcing him to take a few steps back. It would have been fine if Sherlock hadn’t forgotten about his leg, causing him to fall over to the side and collide into a table. John was almost dragged down with him, but let go when Sherlock’s arm slammed into the table, effectively toppling it over and slamming the base into his bruised stomach.

John backed up, horror written on his face. “What the hell was that? What’s wrong with you?!”

After a few moments of Sherlock frozen in place so he didn’t pass out, a couple employees came out of the back, asking them to leave the shop and helping Sherlock to stand up while handing him napkins for his bleeding nose. John just rolled his eyes and stormed out of the shop, leaving his two companions behind. Mary held onto Sherlock’s arm to steady him as he limped out of the building and held the crumpled napkins against his swollen nose. Once they got a good enough distance away, Sherlock leaned against the building to his back, relieving Mary of her position as a crutch. 

She gently pried Sherlock’s hand away from his face and softly touched his nose in a few places. Sherlock let her since she seemed to know what she was doing, wincing a few times when she pressed a sensitive spot. When she finished, he brought the tissues back up to his nose, wiping away the blood gathering on his upper lip. “You have some slight bruising under your eye, but your nose isn't broken, so you shouldn’t have to go to a hospital. I think you should though.”

Sherlock looked at her quizzically. “Why should I?”

Mary leaned on the building next to him, both of them watching John walking up and down the sidewalk cursing and calling for a cab. “You were hurt before tonight, but you didn’t complain about it once. Not even when John tried to kill you. He obviously made the injuries worse, so you should head over to the hospital. I’m going to guess that he split stitches on your lower back, left side.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “How did you know?”

Mary shrugged with a grin. “I’m a nurse, I can tell when a patient is hurt, especially when they try to hide it.” She raised her arm and looked down at her side, pointing to a large red stain on her dress. “Also, you’re bleeding all over. There was blood on the cafe floor and all over the kebab shop when we left.”

Sherlock smiled a bit. “I guess I should have noticed that. I was too busy focusing on hiding the limp from John.” He sighed a bit, slumping to the side. “I don’t understand where I went wrong. I did everything someone normal would have. I came back, I answered his questions, I said I was sorry like I was supposed to, I even tried to make him laugh. Sometimes I just don’t get him.”

Mary laughed, gently touching Sherlock’s shoulder. “You were trying to make jokes? I don’t think he understood that.”

Sherlock frowned. “He always used to laugh at my jokes. What’s different that he didn’t get it this time?”

She smiled softly at him. “You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?”

Sherlock looked over to John who had finally managed to hail a cab. “Human? No. John?” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I thought I used to, but I’m not so sure now. Maybe I messed up too much and drove him away.”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think you could drive away John Watson if you wanted too. He’s much too stubborn, but if you want, I could talk him around for you.”

Sherlock chuckled lightly, wincing at the pain it caused. “You will?”

Mary grinned. “Oh yeah, he has no chance against me.” She pushed herself away from the building to walk towards the cab John was waiting by before turning around one last time. “You get yourself to a hospital alright?” He nodded a bit. “Oh, and one last question. What do you actually think about the mustache.”

Sherlock chuckled to himself. “I think it’s charming. It suits him well and I rather like it, but I prefer him without. He looks more familiar that way.” Pushing away the embarrassed smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, he waved to Mary as she turned to walk away. Thinking she probably wouldn’t mind, he looked at her for real, just a quick glance to see what John was getting into by marrying her. 

Only child.

Linguist. 

Clever. 

Part time nurse. 

Shortsighted. 

Guardian. 

Bakes Own Bread. 

Disillusioned. 

Cat Lover. 

Romantic. 

Appendix Scar. 

Lib Dem. 

Secret Tattoo. 

Size 12. 

Liar.

Then, one giant deduction floating above her head caused him to stand up straighter in fear and push himself off of the building to walk towards the cab desperately with his limp, mentally begging her not to tell John.

She Knows.

He watched as the cab pulled away, one hand over his mouth as he finally reached the curb. He took a few steps to follow it, waving his hands above his head in an attempt to get Mary’s attention. “Don’t tell him! MARY! Don’t tell him! Please!”

In the cab, Mary didn’t notice that Sherlock was trying to get her attention, but John did. “What is he doing?”

Mary’s head shot up to look at John, then to glance out the back window to see Sherlock waving his hands and shouting something before the cab turned the corner and he was lost from their line of sight. She shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know. Should we go back and see?”

John turned away from the window to look at the floor. “No. whatever it is, it can’t be too important.”

Mary frowned a bit. “I guess…” She fell silent, thinking for the rest of the cab ride to the place she shared with John. One single thought was bugging her as they got out of the cab and made their way into the house, and it bugged her when they hung up their coats, walked into their kitchen, and started to make dinner since they didn’t get to eat at the restaurant. It tickled the back of her brain as they ate, cleaned away their dishes, washed up, and got ready to sleep. There were a few moments that it was chased away when she found the ring box in John’s coat pocket after picking it up off the floor, smiling and slipping it onto her finger, but then the thought came back full force. It nagged at her when she climbed into bed and looked over at John who was slipping on a shirt, when he laughed in relief upon seeing the ring on her finger, when he kissed her, and when he made his way into the bathroom. The thought tickled the back of her mind to such a degree that she picked up the iPad that John had been looking at earlier to look something up, bringing up the search bar and typing in a few words. It only took one website to confirm her suspicions, so she closed out of the tab, instantly bringing her to the one behind it. Mary raised her eyebrows in surprise as she looked at John's blog, each published entry having a duplicate that said (Private) with different contents. She decided to open one, sparing a quick glance in the direction of the bathroom before diving into John's secret blog. It was much more detailed and interesting than anything John actually put out into the world, so it was a given that she had to read it. “His movements were so silent. So furtive, he reminded me of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent.” 

John shuffled around in the bathroom, turning off the sink to hear better. "You what?

Mary continued reading, thoroughly hooked into the story. “I couldn’t help thinking what an amazing criminal he’d make if he turned his talents against the law.” 

John came out of the small bathroom, his lower face and upper lip covered in shaving foam. When he realized what Mary was reading, he nearly had a heart attack. "Don’t read that!"

Mary was still looking at the screen as she protested. "Come on John I get to read the famous blog, finally!"

He shook his head, making his way over to the bed, fingers twitching with the urge to grab the iPad away from her. "You can read the blog whenever you like, just please stop reading that part." She rolled her eyes and closed the tab, sighing and leaning the computer against her chest. "Mary, what entry was that?"

Mary shrugged. "Why does it matter so much? It was a good story and I get that they are private, but it's not like some sort of love confession that you don't want the world to see."

"MARY!"

Mary gave him a funny look, he almost never raised his voice. "I'm pretty sure it was just Death By Twitter."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, stepping away a bit and tapping his foot. "That's okay I think. I just really don't want anyone to read it."

She groaned, tipping the iPad onto the bed next to her where John quickly snatched it away. "John, it's ancient history, yes, I know. But it’s not, anymore, is it, because he’s… you know." She looked up at John in exasperation and paused for a moment in shock. Mary giggled at the state of his face with clear confusion. "What are you doing?" 

John shrugged halfheartedly. "Having a wash I guess." 

Mary grinned, a snicker threatening to slip out. "You’re shaving it off." 

John shrugged. "Well, you hate it." 

Mary sat up, propping her arms on her drawn up knees. "You're shaving because you think Sherlock hates it." 

John just rolled his eyes with a huff. "Apparently everyone hates it." 

Mary giggled softly, then bit her lip. "Are you gonna see him again?"

John shook his head, propping the iPad up on the bedside table. "No. Tomorrow I’m going to work."

Mary seemed a little disappointed. "Oh. And after work, are you gonna see him again?"

Rolling his eyes, John walked back into the bathroom. "Mary."

"Of course, I wouldn't blame you. After all, six months of bristly kisses for me, and then Sherlock Holmes turns up, christ. I'd probably go running in for a big-"

"Mary!" John turned bright red, completely scandalized at what she was insinuating. He just went back to looking into the mirror as he applied more shaving foam, covering up the blush on his cheeks. "I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes." 

Mary laughed at his blush, stretching out on the bed. "You should put that on a T-shirt!"

John rolled his eyes with a smile. "Shut up."

Mary snickered cheekily. "Or what?"

"Or I’ll marry you." John smiled, tilting his head back out to look at her, pointing to the ring on her finger. She grinned. 

Turning back around, John picked up his razor, looked into the mirror, sighed, and lifted it towards his upper lip. Mary got out of bed to walk towards him, watching him in the mirror with a smirk until he finished shaving. "You know, not everyone hated it."

John rolled his eyes, moving to his side of the bed. "Oh really, give me the name of one person that actually didn't think it was horrible."

Mary grinned, plopping herself heavily onto the other side of the bed and looking at John's face of disbelief. "Sherlock didn't."

"WHAT!" John's eyes went wide as his face burned. Mary cackled evilly at his reaction, rolling on the bed as he groaned. "What do you mean? When did he say that?"

She grinned, pausing to catch her breath. "You were too busy hailing a cab to get away from him."

John turned bright red in embarrassment as he flopped backwards onto his pillow, covering his face with his hands. "I'm such an idiot." He peeked through a gap in his fingers, looking at Mary. "I thought he hated it. He wasn't trying to make me laugh was he?"

Mary smiled apologetically. "Yeah, he was. Sorry."

He groaned again, flopping his arms over his face. "I can't believe that I  _ did _ that to him."

Mary moved to get under the blanket, laying down and drawing them up to her shoulders. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, he was awkward because of the whole trying to be normal for once thing."

John sighed. "No, it really doesn't." He got under the blankets and flopped his arms down before pausing and looking at Mary quizzically. "What do you mean?"

Mary frowned. "You didn't get it? It was so obvious that he was trying. I first realized when he said 'isn’t that what normal people do in their real lives' and when he kept doing things out of the character you had told me about. Admitting that he actually needed you, not wanting to be recognised, apologizing when you said people might misunderstand, keeping the drama to a minimum, saying 'normal people don't' and 'normal people wouldn't' a lot. It was obvious John. He didn't try to deduce you once the whole time."

John felt his stomach drop past his feet and the heat completely drain from his face. "Oh."

Mary bit her lip, then shuffled closer to John, wrapping her arms around him. "He did tell me he liked the mustache. Said it suited you." She smiled as John chuckled lightly. "He told me that you looked charming with it."

John smiled softly, kissing her on the forehead. "Oh, did he now?"

Mary grinned. "Of course. You're in luck though. He prefers the shaved face since it's more familiar. Said he couldn't trust a mustache because men keep secrets there."

John laughed and rolled his eyes. "He didn't really say that. Did he?"

Mary smiled. "I might have just made up the last part."

John grinned, kissing Mary softly and settling into his pillow. "That's good to know." Mary quickly shifted to look into his eyes. "Goodnight Mary."

Mary kissed his nose. "Goodnight John."

John turned off the bedside lamp and rolled over to sleep as Mary smiled at the back of his head, eventually turning herself and closing her eyes. Just as she was about to drift off though, she remembered what she had been worrying about on the way back from the kebab shop and her eyes flew open. The thoughts ran around her head for a few hours in the dark, keeping her awake as she listened to the restlessness of her fiance. 

“John? Are you still awake?” Mary couldn’t help it anymore, she had to ask.

John turned to face her in the dark. “Yeah. Can’t sleep?”

She shook her head. “That’s not it. It’s just something I have been wondering about ever since I got to talk to Sherlock."

John sighed. “It’s nothing to worry about Mary. He works his way into your brain sometimes. It's just how he is."

Mary sighed unsatisfied in the half answer. "That's not it either John. I just wanted to ask you something about him since you probably know the reason behind it better than anyone."

John hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I might. What is it you wanted to ask?"

Mary paused for a moment, figuring out how to word her question. "Why is it that Sherlock disguises his aspergers as high functioning sociopathy? Is it because he doesn't think people would respect him if they knew?"

John was speechless. "Aspergers?"

Mary nodded. "Of course John. Remember, I had wanted to be a psychologist originally and took five years of schooling specializing in autism patients. I know the signs of aspergers like the back of my hand. Besides, a sociopath and someone with aspergers are incredibly similar, a hard time connecting with peers, inability to grasp conventional social rules, a lack of empathy, disinterest in certain conversations, interests in specific subjects that border on obsessive, a list of knowledge in certain categories that's beyond normal. He had a lot of tells though, first of all being his strangely formal way of speaking and dressing paired with the speed of his words. He doesn't understand the give and take of conversation, can't grasp why he has to explain his too quick train of thought, he shoots the walls when bored, climbs all over furniture, has an obsession with solving cases and when he can't solve a case, he's addicted to drugs. It's all there John, I just want to know why he hides it. He's a good person when he isn't under the stress of people expecting him to be perfect and he's honestly a very sweet man, albeit a misunderstood one. More people would see his good sides if he didn't hide his disabilities under the false presence of just being cruel."

John was frozen, his brain rolling over and over at all of the evidence over the years pointing directly to the conclusion that Mary had come up with in the hour she knew him personally. "I- never knew." He sat up in bed, running his hands through his hair and over his arms, the whole world around him coming crashing to the ground. "Christ, Mary. I'm a bloody doctor. You would have thought that it had occurred to me ONCE that my best friend had AUTISM! What kind of horrible person am I to spend two and a half years with a man almost every hour of the day and think he was a psychopath for not knowing why mothers loved their children when he  _ physically didn't know _ what the bond was? Fuck, I just… I just don't know how this could have happened. What type of idiot am I?"

Mary sat up, quickly wrapping her arms around John to calm him down as he started hyperventilating. "John. John, I'm so sorry. I thought you knew. I thought he would have told you or at least given enough signs for you to figure it out on your own."

John shook his head, pulling his legs to his chest and burying his face between his knees in a defensive position. "I just- I should have known Mary. I should have known."

* * *

The lotus flower blooms from a rather unremarkable bud to a flower that is resplendent in the glory of its multi-symmetrical open form. That is an analogy for an unenlightened individual on his journey to a  **_realization_ ** of the truth.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**The Lavender of Sherlock Holmes**

Sherlock was sitting on the steps of 221B, right outside the door. He was running his fingers over the black wool of his coat as it lay on his lap. He had found it on his chair when he had returned to the flat after heading to the hospital to get his back re-stitched by Molly Hooper. From what he could tell, John had owned it for the two years that Sherlock had been dead and based on the short hairs on the collar, he had worn it obsessively for just over half a year, possibly seven or eight months. The coat had been washed much more than it should have, indicating that John wanted to get rid of a stain, or more likely the smell of blood that he could most likely smell long after the sharp scent was gone. When Sherlock held it to his nose, he could still smell a bit of John on it from the times that the short man had most likely been carrying it around everywhere, but it was faded enough to know that John hadn't touched it at all in about fifty- fifty three days. Judging by the dust that accumulated in the flat, Mrs. Hudson couldn't bare to look at it long enough to leave any presence, but John came up a dozen or so times a year, leaving footprints and finger marks through the flat, only stopping in long enough to clean the dust off of Sherlock's chair and leave. The last time John was in the flat, he had left the coat behind, so he wasn't expecting to come back until Mrs. Hudson moved on enough to finally be rid of the items cluttering her upstairs room.

Sherlock held it in his arms for a while, going through the day, step by step so he wouldn't become bored. The day had been… less than eventful, but bordering on interesting. He won at a game of Operation facing off against Mycroft, but now he needed to know who Mycroft's mystery Goldfish was. It could be anyone honestly, his older brother could be married and had seven children by now with nobody having any idea on who any of them were, but Sherlock insisted on running the conversation with the lovesick fool through his mind a few times.

They had been talking about their childhoods when Sherlock interrupted the conversation. "I used to think I was an idiot." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on until we met other children."

Sherlock smiled fondly at the memory of realizing how slow other people's minds were compared to his. "Oh, yes. That was a mistake." 

Mycroft grinned as well, slightly emotionless and dark. "Quite the ghastly one as well. What were they thinking of, those fools?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Probably something about trying to make friends." 

Mycroft thought silently for a moment. "Oh yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now." 

Sherlock looked at him closely, trying to find some hint of human interaction on his brother. "And you don’t? Ever?"

Mycroft shook his head slowly, a smile tugging at a single corner of his mouth. "If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish."

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of him and looked at his brother quizzically. "Yes, but I’ve been away for two years." 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So? What are you getting at here,  _ brother _ ?" 

Sherlock shrugged with a smirk. "Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a… goldfish while I was away?"

Mycroft looked appalled, but his cheeks told a different story, turning just the smallest bit pinker. "Change the subject! Now!"

Sherlock grinned. "No, I don't think I will brother dear. Now tell me who the Goldfish is and why he caught your eye?"

Mycroft turned his head to face the wall, doing his best to betray his emotions. "And why have you come to the conclusion that the Goldfish that may or may not exist must be a man?"

Sherlock grinned, sitting back. "If it had been a woman, you would have simply just told me that it wasn't a man."

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock, looking at him right in the eye in defiance. "I will have you know that this is in no way slipping up for me and I would prefer for the subject to be changed."

Sherlock smirked, leaning forward and resting his elbows against his knees. "We can change the subject once you give me his name."

"Absolutely not."

"Just last name."

"No."

"Just first name."

"No."

"Hair color."

"No."

"City of residence."

"No."

"Profession?"

"No."

"Yearly income."

"No."

"Marital status."

"I'm not in a relationship with a married man Sherlock."

"AhHA! An actual relationship. Is he neatly kept?"

"To a degree."

"Is it serious at least?"

"As in?"

"As in  _ serious _ Mycroft, don't be daft. Regular dates, physical touch such as in holding hands, kissing, sex, bloody wedding rings."

"Possibly."

"Are you inviting me to the wedding? When is it."

"I haven't pr- SHERLOCK!"

"YOU HAVEN'T PROPOSED YET?!" Sherlock immediately stood up, grabbing his brother by the arm and yanking him out of the chair he was sitting in. "What are you still doing here you bloody loon? Get out of my flat! Get out! Get out! Get out! Go buy him a damn ring and not just some silly band! Get it designed! Or engraved! Both! Get it designed and engraved! With a quote on it! Some silly love quote! Like the one from Poe!"

Mycroft looked disgusted. "We loved with a love more than love?"

Sherlock cringed, pausing his attempts at shoving his brother out the door. "Oh no. No, not that one. It's hideous." He thought for a moment, tapping his chin. "How about something along the lines of 'you loved me when I couldn't love myself' or… no. Wrong one."

Mycroft looked at his brother in a mix of hopelessness and unease. "I don't know any silly love quotes."

Sherlock shrugged, running his chin lightly. "Maybe try something with his name? Something that rhymes? What rhymes with his name?"

Mycroft frowned. "Airy? Ory? Snorey?"

Sherlock visibly winced. "What the hell Mycroft, are you broken? Snorey? Is that even a word? What kind of name rhymes with  _ snorey _ ?"

Mycroft scoffed. "Gregory you bloody loon. Gregory. Snorey. It works!"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Gregory does NOT rhyme with snorey. What kind of logic is that?"

"I don't usually start RHYMING, SHERLOCK! It isn't something I have had to use since I sang that East Wind song to you when we were children."

"Well then use a line from the song!"

"What line would work though?"

"I don't know. Use a line from any cheesy love song then."

"I don't actually KNOW ANY!"

"Then, how about something like… um, no… no… no box could hold how I feel but a ring might?" Sherlock cringed. "That was… completely-"

"Horrendous." Mycroft looked at his brother with actual disappointment at coming up with something so horrible. "Try again."

"Have you ever loved someone so much that you would become completely trapped for the rest of your life in an unforgiving relationship with a horrible husband that is a complete GROUCH that isn't helping at all with a stupid little quote for your ring because I certainly WOULDN'T and I feel horrible for any Gregory out there that will have to live with this insufferable brick if there would ever be anyone willing to accept a proposal from an OLD MAN."

Mycroft scowled. "I have to do the actual proposing part! This is the least you could do to help me out once in your life."

"I didn't think that this is what you meant when you said that caring wasn't an advantage! I swear to god Mycroft, you owe me the biggest favor in the world!"

"I KNOW. JUST HELP ME!"

Sherlock scowled, taking a deep breath and taking a quick trip into mind palace to pluck random moments he had heard from clients and shoving them together. "Alright. Here is what I've got. I would gladly fall for you 100 times… if you were the home I came back to." Sherlock sighed. "That's it. That's all I have. I'm sorry if it is sub-par, but I do believe that it is the best I will ever be able to do."

Mycroft was silent for a few moments, his face completely blank as he contemplated the line. "No. I think it will work nicely." He shifted a bit in place, looking down to look into Sherlock' s eyes. "...Thank You. I mean it."

Sherlock grinned. "You are welcome Mycroft. You're just lucky that I don't know any men named Gregory."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Well, it must be my lucky day that you deleted his name."

"I WHAT?!" Sherlock slammed his hand into the door frame.

"Good day Sherlock." Mycroft smiled as he walked out of the flat and down the stairs.

"NO! MYCROFT COME BACK! HOW DO I KNOW HIM?" He ran down the stairs with a force that shook half of the building as he charged after Mycroft.

"If you leave the house with only your night clothes on, I will be having words with Mummy." Mycroft got into a car that was waiting outside for him and grinned at Sherlock who was now restricted to glaring from the doorway.

"To hell with you Mycroft! I will be getting you back for this!" Sherlock glared from the doorway until the black car drove away and he stomped back up to his flat to call Molly. He needed to solve a case and she could help.

That partnership had ended at the end of the day with a rather interesting drop off.

Sherlock and Molly had just finished up talking to a client and she was waiting on the stairs, so he walked past her and continued down the stairs. "Fancy some chips?"

Molly followed him quickly. "What?"

Sherlock smiled at her politely. "I know a fantastic fish shop just off Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."

Molly grinned, letting out a small laugh. "Did you get him off a murder charge?"

Sherlock chuckled. "No. Detective work isn't the only thing I do. I helped him put up some shelves."

She giggled at him and he smiled briefly. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, causing him to turn back to her. "What was today about?"

"I was saying thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything you did for me."

Molly smiled a little. "It’s okay. It was my pleasure." She paused for a moment as they continued walking. "I don’t mean 'pleasure' as in I did it because I was helping  _ you _ , just because I wanted a chance to go sleuthing with some famous person. I mean, I didn’t mind. I wanted to. As your friend."

Sherlock stepped closer and spoke intensely but softly. "Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter enough to me to threaten, was the one person that mattered quite a bit because as friends go, you are… one of the few I have. You made it all possible." He drew in a breath silently. "But you can’t do this again, can you?"

Molly smiled, her voice getting a little choked up. "I had a lovely day Sherlock. I’d love to do this again sometime, I just… um…" She looked down at the ring on her finger.

Sherlock smiled comfortingly at her, nodding a few times. "Yes. I understand, congratulations, by the way."

Molly shrugged. "He’s not from work, so… probably not an evil criminal mastermind that might actually still be gay."

Sherlock smiled. "We might not ever know the answer to that question."

Molly shrugged. "Well, it might have just been the hooker shirts and whore vibe that threw you off." Sherlock's eyes flew wide and he snorted, tripping and eating a face full of cement. "Oh my god! Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Alright?" Sherlock scoffed, standing up and brushing himself off. "Molly Hooper, I do believe that you are the bravest and most foolish woman I have ever met and if Moriarty is indeed still alive, I want you to say that sentence to him so we can both see his reaction because you deserve to see the look on his face. You were the woman who broke up with the world's most dangerous criminal to live to talk about it just to insult his sense of fashion while simultaneously calling him both a hooker and a whore in the same sentence. Molly Hooper, I believe that I am the luckiest man alive to have you as a friend. Now, enough about that. You can tell me about your fiance if you would like."

Molly smiled broadly up at him,giggling like a loon. "We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He’s nice. He’s really interesting… and he's got a dog. We usually go to the pub on weekends… and he brought me to meet his mum… and dad and his friends and all his family… and I’ve honestly got nothing else. Sort of silly how little I have to say about him."

Sherlock grinned, just shrugging. "Well, you don't have to list everything right now, I just hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, I'm hoping that not everyone you fall for turns out to be some sociopath, psychopath, or government conspiracy."

Molly tilted her head a bit in a questioning gesture. "No?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No." He stepped closer to her, gave her a genuine smile, then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. 

Molly smiled. "You might have to get me out of a bit of trouble now and again. Maybe it’s just my type. The dangerous ones with the questionable history of trouble."

Sherlock chuckled. "Just like John."

Molly grinned. "Yeah, just like John."

All of that had brought him to the moment of sitting in the steps, holding onto his coat when Mary came barreling through the door downstairs. "Sherlock! Sherlock where the hell are you?"

Sherlock came flying down the stairs, slipping his coat on and almost tripping over Mary who was attempting to force her way up past Mrs. Hudson. "Mary. What's wrong?"

She held up her phone, showing Sherlock a few nonsense sentences. "It's a skip code. First and every third. Someone's got John. Saint James The Less."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he shoved Mary to get her moving. "Go, now! Move! Move!" He pulled her out the door, running out onto the sidewalk. "Did you drive here?"

"Of course."

"Too slow. Too slow. There." Sherlock ran out into the middle of the road, nearly causing a crash as a car swerved to avoid him and he planted himself right in front of a motorcycle. "Get on." He turned to Mary as he shoved the man off of the vehicle and jumped onto the seat, nearly driving off before Mary could get on the bike.

Sherlock launched the motorcycle directly into the fastest speed that it could go, swerving around cars and racing through red lights, calculating the ETA as Mary shouted out the time they had left from behind him. He swerved off of his original path to a shortcut through a park, flying over stone steps and tearing up grass in his desperation to get to where he needed to go. "Sherlock! We are running out of time!"

“Shut up! I know!" He tore through the city violently, nearly hitting seven different people and definitely breaking many laws as he urged the motorcycle on wordlessly.

"Execution in two minutes!" Mary sank her fingers into Sherlock's arm.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK!" Sherlock swerved to avoid a car, calculating the time as three minutes if he continued the way he was going, but if he turned that way… then maybe. He yanked the motorcycle to the left, causing Mary to yelp as he shot down the pedestrian walkway. "OUT OF THE WAY! MOVE! MOVE OUT OF THE BLOODY WAY!"

Sherlock forced the bike up steep stairs, launching it out onto the road, finally coming to see the park. "Sherlock!" Mary showed him the phone and he could barely make out the words as his eyesight blurred. "What a shame Mr. Holmes. John was quite the man."

Sherlock raced along the fence, unable to stop anything as a pile of wood was engulfed in flames and his heart jumped into his throat.  **_John_ ** . He spun the bike through the gates of the park, pulling Mary off as he jumped, letting the motorcycle crash into a tree as he scrambled to his feet, leaving her on the cement as he tore off his coat, throwing it to the ground as he ran. He was vaguely aware of screaming as he ran through the crowd to the bonfire, shoving kids and adults alike out of the way in his desperate fight against time. "JOHN! JOHN WHERE ARE YOU?" Sherlock felt his hands burning as he tore piece after piece of flaming wood from the pile, trying to find anything that could possibly be John. He threw the burning box behind him, ripped away pieces of a flaming wardrobe, shoved his hands through the fabric of an old armchair, all of it coming up empty, blind to anything except for the flames in front of him and deaf to the screams ripping themselves out of his own throat. "JOHN! JOHN GET OUT! JOHN PLEASE! JOHN! WHERE ARE YOU! JOHN! JOOOOOOHN!" He felt sobs wracking over his body as the flames grew higher and he ripped away everything he could get his hands on until he felt something familiar, pulling hard at the jacket he had sunk his bloody fingers into furiously. Half of the pile collapsed as he pulled a limp body from the flames, quickly slapping at the fire that was eating away at the fabric and dragging him away from the bonfire. Sherlock collapsed to the ground with John in his arms, shaking and rocking back and forth as he clung tightly to the limb body, begging for the heart to keep beating. He just sobbed John's name repetitively as he shook, ignoring the people who were patting away the flames that were crawling up his shirt sleeves and across his back. "Please John. Please. Please. Please. Please John. Don't die. Please don't die. John. Please. Please. John please." He just shook back and forth, his sobbing that was getting harder and harder eventually just becoming desperate screams as arms wrapped around him. "I'm sorry! I'm just so sorry! Come back! I'm sorry! Please! I'm sorry! SHIT! I'M SORRY! PLEASE!" The words faded away, dissolving into the screaming sobs that were completely enveloping him.

Sherlock could hear soft murmuring through his screams, someone just whispering little nothing's into his ear as he fell apart. "It's okay. It's alright. Everything is fine. It will be okay Love. It will all be okay. Don't worry. We are all safe. Shh, I'm alright. It's okay. It's alright Love. It's perfectly alright. Don't you worry. I'm safe. You did good. You did a fantastic job Love. A brilliant job. Everything is alright. It's okay. It will all be okay. I'm alright. I'm out. Don't worry Love. You got me out. You did good. Everything is fine. It's okay. Don't you worry. Shh, you're going to be fine. You're fine Love. Just fine. It's all perfectly fine." 

Slowly, his screams lessened to sobs, becoming soft hiccups, lessening to just tears, and then fell to complete silence as he passed out from the pain.

  
  


* * *

From their wonderful scent to their beautiful purple hue, a bouquet of lavender is a message of  **_devotion_ ** .

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**John And Lilies Of The Valley**

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, zoning out and picking clumsily at the bandages wrapped around his fingers and palms. Molly said that he would need to keep the bandages on for a while and threatened to get Mycroft on his case if he took them off himself. When he remembered not to start peeling off the medical tape, he looked back up to his company, finally zoning back into the conversation as the woman droned on. "... which wasn’t the way I’d put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, 'Have you checked down the back of the sofa?' He’s always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren’t you, dear?"

The man nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so."

Sherlock screwed his face up, then tilted his head forward a little, almost nodding off to sleep until his head jerked back up again. He steepled his fingers in front of his face as the woman looked towards her husband. Sherlock just glared towards the kitchen for no reason in particular.

The woman just kept going. "Keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses."

The man nodded again. "Glasses."

"Blooming things. I said, 'Why don’t you get a chain and wear them around your neck?' And he says, 'What, like Larry Grayson?"

"Yup. Larry Grayson."

Sherlock rose quickly to his feet, buttoning his jacket as he walked towards the couple. "So did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?" He stepped up onto the coffee table and then onto the sofa between the couple. The woman just leaned to the side, getting out of his way, and the man stared up at him as he started to idly flick through the paperwork stuck to the wall.

The woman grinned, used to Sherlock's unusual behavior. "Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see, er, St Paul’s, the Tower… but they weren’t letting anyone in to Parliament." Sherlock frowned and looked down at her impatiently. "Some big debate is going on."

Sherlock's attention was drawn away from his papers as the living room door opened and John walked in. Sherlock froze for a moment in surprise, nearly falling off the couch, not expecting to see the doctor. "John!" 

John looked at the couple on the couch, moving back towards the door a few steps. "Oh. Sorry, you’re busy."

Sherlock grinned, stepping off the sofa and reaching down to pull the woman to her feet. "Er, no. No, no, no, they were just leaving. Come in, please."

The woman looked up in surprise. "Oh, were we?"

Sherlock tugged at her arm to get her standing faster. "Yes. Yes you were leaving. Now."

John moved backwards a few steps, grabbing the door handle to close it behind him. "No, no, if you’ve got a case, I can just go…" 

Sherlock shook his head frantically. "No, not a case, no, no, no." He pushed at the back of the woman and man, quickly drawing his bandaged hands back and wincing a little as he tucked them under his arms. "Go. Goodbye."

The woman stopped in the middle of the flat. "Yeah, well, we’re here ’til Saturday, remember and you should ring us up more often, but that isn't what we came here to discuss."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out." He tried to herd the couple towards the door, but the woman was planted firm.

The woman frowned and turned to Sherlock with a delighted face. "But Sherly dear, we want to speak about your engagement!"

Sherlock froze up, his jaw dropping in shock. "My WHAT?!"

She nodded happily. "It's all over the papers this morning dear, I'm so proud of you for finally connecting with someone. From what I saw in the photograph, he's quite the good looking fellow, but I do believe that he's just a tad… how do I put it? Short." She took her thumb and pointer finger and placed them a few inches apart.

"MOTHER!" Sherlock turned bright red, looking quickly over at John who had walked over to the window, face buried deep into his hands, utterly mortified. Sherlock quickly shoved away his mother's hand that was insinuating John's… size. "Please, Mummy, just leave." He bundled them onto the landing, but when he tried to close the door, his mother turned and stuck her heavy shoe into the doorway to stop the door from shutting. Sherlock pulled the door open a little and glared down at her foot.

His mother smiled brightly. "I can’t tell you how glad we are, Sherlock. All that time with people thinking the worst of you."

Sherlock glanced round at John, who had leaned against the wall over by the window, deliberately keeping his back to the others. "Mum, actually-"

His mother grinned, taking his hands and holding them in her own. "We’re just so pleased it’s all over and you can finally be happy. I was so worried that you wouldn't let anyone close enough for a chance to fall in love, but I guess I really had nothing to worry about. You treat him well, got it? It isn't every day you find someone brave enough to break down your walls."

Grimacing, Sherlock tried to shut the door on her foot to make her remove it to avoid the situation. She doesn’t budge. "Mum, listen to me. I'm not-"

She held tighter to his hands, frowning at him. "No, you don't say that. You said that too many times whenever we asked if you were in a relationship as a teenager. You  _ are _ good enough for him and if he actually loves you he won't mind that you're just a bit different."

Sherlock huffed and tried to poke her shoe out of the door with his foot. "Mm-hmm. I know Mum. Just one problem with that."

She perked up her ears a bit. "Yes dear, you can tell me anything."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not actually engaged, the papers read the situation wrong. I haven't even seen them and I know it."

Sherlock's mother looked shocked. "Oh. Well you should propose then. No time like the present."

Sherlock groaned. "Mummy… I'm not- currently  _ seeing _ anyone."

She looked broken and dropped his hands. "Oh, I was just hoping that you might have finally found someone. I guess it hasn't been easy these past two years."

Sherlock sighed at his mother's sad expression and forced himself to grin. "If it makes you feel any better, Mycroft is due to propose to his boyfriend any day now. I'll let you know all of the wedding dates if he forgets to send an invitation and you know how forgetful he is when it comes to this sort of thing."

Her whole face lit up as she smiled. "Well then! I had no idea he was seeing someone, much less in a position to propose!"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I know. Very surprising. Now exit the flat please? Go bug him about his love life and make inappropriate jokes to someone who is actually getting married."

She looked delighted as he pecked Sherlock's cheek. "Alright. Sherly, do you promise to call more often?"

Sherlock's father shrugged. "She worries."

She looked at him expectantly. "Promise?"

Sherlock glanced towards John to make sure that the doctor couldn't hear him, then he leaned close to his mother. "Don't worry about me Mum. I'll ring, I promise."

Smiling, she reached up to stroke his cheek and left. Sherlock moved over to John at the window, watching as his parents called a cab and drove away.

When they were finally gone, he turned to John, red tinting his cheeks. "Sorry about that, she can be a bit invasive at times… it's just how it is."

John blushed and shrugged indifferently. "No, it’s fine. So those were…" 

Sherlock hesitated briefly before looking sheepishly at the blushing doctor. "Just my parents."

John bit his lip. "Your parents."

Sherlock nodded. "They're in town for a few days. Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of “Les Mis”. Tried to talk me into doing it."

John chuckled briefly, turning to look at Sherlock with a grin. "That is not what I expected."

Sherlock shrugged. "Nobody's really…  _ met _ them before."

John shifted from one foot to the other. "I mean, they’re just so…"

He looked at Sherlock who directed an ashamed gaze to the floor, narrowing his eyes. "Yeah I know. They're normal."

John froze, remembering what Mary had pointed out about him two nights ago. He took a quick glance at Sherlock, the person in front of him completely different than the one from two years ago. Sherlock's eyes weren't flickering all over the flat, absorbing information and working out exactly what John did in the past two years. They were just staring blankly at the floor, so he wasn't deducing anything, something that decidedly wasn't him. There was no confidence or straightforward elegance in his slouched position leaned against the wall, his bad foot hovering a centimeter or two off the ground. It was covered in a black medical sock that kept him from putting shoes on, the ankle itself probably sprained or twisted. His hair was a mess and there was dark bruising under his eye, across his nose, on his bottom lip and on his jaw. He was just wearing a shirt with short sleeves, so John could see the bandages wrapped around his fingers and hands, crawling all the way up his arms and disappearing under the fabric as they crawled to his back and up his neck. He had been burned horribly in the fire, and it was obviously going take a long time to heal, but Sherlock would probably find it fascinating that he no longer had fingerprints because the fire burned them off if he ever got over the fear of shoving his hands into live flames. What a terrible thought. John was speechless for a few moments, he had never seen this side of Sherlock and it scared him to see the man that was left when all of the carefully created masks were taken away. "Sherlock. That's not what-"

"I know what you meant John. Just leave it." Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall with a grunt, walking unsteadily to his chair and falling into it.

John quickly followed, sitting down across from him. "What is this Sherlock? What are you doing?"

"Aiming to be just another face on the street John. I'm nothing special." Sherlock swung his hurt foot up and over the armrest so he could get more comfortable, placing his hands together under his chin.

John frowned. "I don't understand. I'm not following."

Sherlock shrugged. "Last case."

John's mouth fell open. "What?"

Sherlock sighed, moving so he would be facing John again. "This."

"This is your last case?"

"Yes."

"Last case to take down Moriarty' s network?"

"No."

"For the British government?"

"No."

"Last case until when?"

"Last case, John." Sherlock sighed. "Why can't you grasp that. Last case means last case. Ever."

John went pale. "What- where are you going? After the last case?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm… not exactly sure. I mean, most normal people don't become detectives, so maybe I'll go to college, become a scientist. Maybe a doctor. I think I would probably make a good lawyer." He looked out the window wistfully. "I could join an orchestra and play around the world. That would be nice. I would be known for something that I actually have control of."

John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Why are you doing this?" He gestured at Sherlock with a frown. "Why do you keep thinking that somehow just because you act like it, you would suddenly become ordinary?"

Sherlock flinched visibly. "I'm trying. I really am. I'm so sorry."

John frowned. "Why are you sorry? You have nothing to be sorry about Love. You're special and unique and you're good at what you do, so why would you give that up?"

Sherlock bit his lip and pulled his knees up to his chin. "I don't want you to be forced to run from bullets when you're with me. Not anymore. Not when you have a life to go back to. A job. A home. A… wife."

"I thought you just considered me your partner when solving crimes." John leaned back in his chair, observing each little muscle twitch and chance of eye contact. "What's the point of us being Holmes and Watson if we aren't running from bullets together?"

Sherlock shrank in his seat, his voice so quiet that John could barely hear it. "I thought we… I thought… I can't endanger you John, I just… too much. I can't get you killed. I would never be able to forgive myself. You could never just be my colleague or partner, you mean too much to me because it's you John. It's always been you, John Watson. You keep me right."

John kept his face straight, neutral and unreadable. What did all of that mean? "You're going to stop doing the one thing that keeps you sane… because you don't want me to get hurt?" Sherlock nodded silently as John shook his head in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how stupid that is? You shouldn't have to give something like that up just because I'm getting married."

Sherlock glared at him sadly. "Why don't you get it? If I am able to become normal, then no more murders and drug cartels. That means no more criminal masterminds after me and no more people kidnapping you and trapping you in fires just to get to me. I just need you for one last case and all of this can be over." He paused for a moment. "You can be rid of the danger. For good this time, not like before."

John swallowed thickly to clamp down on the panic swelling in his chest. "You mean… you're going to…"

Sherlock shook his head quickly. "Of course I'm not going to kill myself. That defeats the whole point of doing this."

John let out a relieved breath. "That's… good. Erm, yes. Good." John chuckled uneasily. "I guess we have a case to solve then?"

Sherlock grinned, his eyes lighting up in a manner all too familiar to John. "But of course my dear John. The game is on."

After two hours filled with all kinds of information and clues, John felt himself being pulled back into the familiar buzz of a case, completely forgetting that he was still supposed to be upset about something. He was grinning ear to ear next to Sherlock who was jumping from map to map on the floor of the flat like a child, the tip of his tongue between his lips in concentration and his hands moving up and down in the air in a flapping motion to keep himself from scratching at his arms. It was an odd habit that Sherlock had picked up in time overseas; the motion helping him to focus while distracting him from both pain and the urge to pick at the bandages. John had the screen of Sherlock's laptop open to a video call with one of Sherlock's clients, all of them talking about trains and tunnels and different maps of the underground part of the city. It was exciting to fall back into such a comforting rhythm as Sherlock figured out that it wasn't the man that was missing but the whole train carriage and they went running from the flat to the Westminster station.

* * *

Lily of the Valley means the  **_return of happiness,_ ** and is considered a sign of purity.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Dying With The Daffodils**

It was a quick trip from the front door to their destination and past the locked service gate with the help of a crowbar, but before they could go in, John pulled out his phone.

Sherlock opened the metal gate, dropping the crowbar inside unceremoniously before turning back to John. "What are you doing?"

John sighed before pulling up his text messages. "I'm calling the police."

Sherlock quickly took John's phone, putting it in his pocket. "What? No!"

John frowned at Sherlock as if he was a child before digging his phone back out of Sherlock's pocket. "Sherlock, this isn’t a game. They need to evacuate Parliament."

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes, before turning back to the gate. "They’ll get in the way. They always do. This is cleaner, more efficient."

John scowled as Sherlock slipped through the broken gate. "And illegal."

Sherlock just shrugged before he smirked at John and slipped away into the dark. John just shook his head before quickly pulling up Lestrade's number and typing "bomb westminster station" before running after Sherlock and hoping that it would be enough. He clicked his light on and ran down the dark corridor towards the taller man who was waiting patiently. They quickly ran down dark halls, up rusty ladders, slipped between piping, and eventually stumbled into the Sumatra road station, the place that Sherlock had deduced that the lost train car would be waiting with the bomb meant to blow up the Parliament hall. When they waved the lights around the station though, there was no carriage.

Sherlock looked around blankly, lost for an answer. "What? It should be here. I don’t understand."

John rolled his eyes, the nervousness of dealing with a bomb receding a little. "Well, that’s a first!"

Sherlock glared at John, the sarcasm going unnoticed. "Horrible deduction John, this isn't the only time I have been confused. There’s just nowhere else it could be." He wrinkled his nose a bit, shaking out his hands to probably keep from itching them before placing his fingertips carefully onto the sides of his head and closing his eyes. After a few moments, he opened them, nearly laughing. "Oh! Of course it wouldn't be at the station itself, that would have been much too obvious." Sherlock turned to the left and ran towards the end of the platform.

John quickly followed, chasing after him, watching as Sherlock jumped carefully off the end of the platform onto the tracks. "What? Hang on. Sherlock?"

Sherlock quickly stopped at the sound of John's voice, turning back. "What is it?" 

"That’s ... Isn’t it live?"

"Um… yes. Perfectly safe though. As long as we avoid touching the rails, that is."

"Of course, yeah! Avoid the rails. Great!"

"Just stay away from the rails John. Follow me, it's this way."

"You sure?"

"Positively."

John sighed, carefully lowering himself down onto the tracks and following Sherlock quickly. They didn't have to walk far before the missing carriage was revealed just around the bend. "Ah. Look at that." 

They continued on, until Sherlock looked up and saw the large open vent that was being used to send the explosions into the Houses of Parliament. He directed his flashlight beam into it, the light revealing several small explosive devices attached to the sides of the vent. "John. Are those…"

John tipped his light to look at the bombs. "Demolition charges."

Sherlock frowned, tuning his light away as they continued towards the carriage, John ducking down and shining his light underneath and around it as they approached. He blew out a long breath as they got close and found nothing that could be a risk. Sherlock held open the door to the driver’s cab for John as they climbed in and then went carefully through the opposite door into the carriage itself. Slowly they worked their way through it, looking around every seat, every corner, shining their lights along the ceiling and the floor. At the second set of side doors, Sherlock slowed down, paying particular attention to something as John progressed on to the end. 

John frowned, confused. "It’s empty? There’s nothing here at all." 

Sherlock shook his head, having already spotted a pair of intertwined black and red wires strung along the wall and down to one of the seats. "Isn’t there? Look." He gestured for John to turn back as he pointed his torch to where he was gently lifting the cushion, bending low to shine his light underneath. There were a wired pack of bombs under the cushion, stringing along to the seats next to it. "This is the bomb. The whole carriage is rigged to explode."

John paled, lifting random seat cushions as Sherlock looked around the carriage, taking a few steps along the aisle before spotting a loose floor panel. He quickly walked over, taking his gloves off and bending to the panel, forcing his fingers into the gap and lifting it. Underneath was a device massively larger than the ones under the cushions. 

When John spotted it from over Sherlock's shoulder, he walked over, having to sit down and take several deep nervous breaths. "That's the thing that will set all of these off, isn't it."

Sherlock nodded nervously before propping the panel up against the wall of the train. He had to get John to calm down. They both looked down at the giant bomb, then John looked at Sherlock. "Thank God I called for bomb disposal." 

Sherlock turned to look at John, relief flooding his features. "Oh, you beautiful genius. What would I ever do without you."

John chuckled, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Probably get yourself blown up." Sherlock grinned, looking at John's smile, but his face fell when he noticed that John's reaction had gone sour. "There actually might not be time for that." John gestured down at the countdown clock frozen at 3:30. "So… any ideas?" 

Sherlock pauses briefly before answering carefully. "I have- I don't know." 

John let out a stressed breath before turning to Sherlock who was trying not to panic. "Well, think of something."

"Why do you think I know what to do?"

"Because you’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re as clever as it gets."

"I don't know how to defuse a giant bomb. What about you?"

"I wasn’t in bomb disposal. I’m a bloody doctor!"

"And a soldier, as you keep reminding me." Sherlock was reluctant to admit to himself that he was becoming increasingly nervous as John started pacing. If John had called bomb disposal when they first entered the tunnel, then it would have been seven minutes and twenty three seconds ago. It took seven minutes seventeen seconds to get through the city and five minutes forty two seconds to get through the tunnel and to the carriage, then disposal should be there in approximately six minutes.

"What do we do? I'm sure you've calculated how much time we have." John sat down with his back against the carriage door, pressing his fingers against his eyes.

Sherlock sighed, leaning against the other side of the carriage across from the doctor. "Based on when you called disposal, approximately six minutes."

John froze, biting his lip nervously. "And if I…  _ hypothetically… _ messaged Detective Lestrade about the bomb telling him to go to Westminster station because I didn't have time to go into details?"

Sherlock glared at the ceiling, groaning and slamming his head backwards into the metal carriage door. "Well, since Gilligan is very busy dealing with threats of a terrorist attack and won't have much time to check his phone, we would  _ hypothetically _ have thirteen minutes at the very least and three hours at most, no option for calling disposal ourselves due to lack of cell phone service."

John turned bright red, groaning and letting his head fall to his knees. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I should have just called disposal."

Sherlock shook his head, itching his arms through the black wool of his coat. "It isn't your fault John. We just have to hope the bomb doesn't start counting down in the next few minutes."

Suddenly, the lights came on in the dark carriage, red and casting long shadows, causing John to shout in surprise and then anger. "You bloody cock! You jinxed it!"

Sherlock paled, looking down at the numbers ticking away on the screen. "There is no way you  _ actually _ believe that blather?"

John scoffed and stood up to pace again. "Well now I sure do!"

Sherlock swallowed his pride, staring at the numbers as he listened to John's shouts, his voice dropped to a whisper. "Go."

"... and you didn't give me enough time to properly call the police so I had to text Lestrade's number, but you can't turn off the bloody bomb and- wait. What?" John stopped pacing to stare at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Sherlock looked up at John, pleading with his eyes for the man to go. He had to get John out. He had to save his best friend. "Please. John, just go." Sherlock could see the anger in John's eyes, the rigid stance of a soldier preparing to fight, the stubborn face of a man born of danger, and he couldn't help but notice how beautiful it all was. Even as John stared into the face of certain death, Sherlock still looked at the doctor the same as any other time since the moment they met, with admiration, awe, respect, and so much more. 

John scowled at the bomb. "It's too late now. Even if I ran, I would never make it." John glared at Sherlock fiercely. "Sherlock, if you don't do this, a lot of people will die. You have to use your Mind Palace"

Sherlock shook his head, frantically shoving his bandaged fingers through his hair. "You seriously think I have 'How To Defuse A Bomb' tucked away somewhere?"

John groaned into his hands. "You have everything under the sun and two cents more saved in there, you have to have something, even if it is just from a movie."

Sherlock bit his lip nervously, looking up to John. He needed to get the doctor out of the carriage no matter what. "Alright. I'll try."

Sherlock had to blink away tears as he moved his fingers to his head. If he couldn't do this, then John would die and he couldn't let that happen to his friend. He couldn't let that happen to John. Not John. John was special. John was too important. John was  _ the person. _ The person who was always in his brain, running around. The person that meant so much more than just friendship. John was that person. It was always John. John Hamish Watson. John kept him right. But what did that mean? As Sherlock dissolved into his Mind Palace, the only thing he could think about was John, memories and feelings floating in front of him. All of the things he had been reluctant to delete about John came to the surface, hundreds of versions of John's smile filling every available space. There were so many memories of John, each one just as wonderful as the last. The memories where John was frowning, glaring, upset, frustrated, or stern sent flares of guilt through his chest because he was almost always the cause, but there were many more memories that filled him with the warm feeling he always had for John. The feeling was strong with memories of John smiling, sitting by the fireplace, reading a book, writing entries for the blog, sitting in his chair, making tea, playing board games, or even just looking out the window on the couch, but  _ christ _ , was it strong whenever John laughed. That damn laugh made him feel like exploding from the heat that just wouldn't leave his chest. There were so many versions to distract him and call out to him, but Sherlock pushed them away to get to his minor knowledge about bombs. He found something helpful, but it was almost nothing compared to the realization that he left with. Sherlock would do anything for John, no matter the cost, because it was John that gave him that warm feeling and that feeling kept him right, kept him going.

When Sherlock came back to reality, he let his hands drop to his lap as he looked up into John's desperate eyes. "I'm sorry. I can't stop it." He needed to get John out of the carriage and somewhere safe. He was really going to hate himself when John left.

John closed his eyes, pressing his hand over his mouth and wandering a little ways down the carriage, breathing heavily. "Oh god. This is it. This is how it all ends."

Sherlock felt his heart pounding in his chest, the thumping wild and broken. He was tearing himself apart and didn't even regret it. He just had to get John to safety. "Talk about last case, huh?"

John looked at Sherlock with tears in his eyes as he wiped them away quickly. "What?"

Sherlock chuckled lightly, keeping his expression nonchalant and mildly amused. "I guess it really is the last case. Not how I thought it would go, but I guess it could have been worse."

John looked at Sherlock, horrified. "What the hell are you talking about Sherlock?"

Sherlock just smiled. "I'm done John. I'm bored and all of this just doesn't hold any  _ appeal _ for me anymore." Sherlock gestured around to the carriage bathed in red light. "Why stop the bomb if I don't actually want to? It's not like anything worth my time will come out of turning it off."

John gasped, the fear and anger both horribly present in his eyes as he stared at Sherlock who was still smiling like a lunatic. "You know how to stop the bomb?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, barking out a short laugh and praying that John would just leave already. "Oh course I do. I simply do not want to."

John backed up as far away from Sherlock as he possibly could, shaking from the anger as tears pooled out of his eyes. "People are going to DIE Sherlock! How could you do this!"

Sherlock glared at John, snarling and spitting out his biting words. "Because that's what I do John. I use people and throw them away and you are no different. You're just useless and nobody would ever care if you died. There's nothing in that brain of yours and you're just another one of my stupid, dull, worthless pawns. I never care and you were just a moron for thinking you were different."

John sobbed, covering his mouth and backing away while shaking his head. He was completely broken and Sherlock felt like he had just watched his own heart ripped out of his chest and shattered on the pavement. John shook from the effort of not falling over with every sob, but he looked into Sherlock's eyes with pure hatred. "You bloody psychopath! You arrogant fucking mad man! I hate you! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sherlock laughed and clutched his stomach, bending over from the laughter. "You really think I care what you have to say about me? I'm a bloody sociopath! I don't care about anything! I just find a new toy, use it up, and throw it away."

John glared at him, tears pouring from his eyes as he struggled to breathe past the sobs. "You're a machine without an ounce of humanity left. A fucking monster. A heartless reptile." He stood up straight, walking to the door to lead him out of the carriage and grabbing the door. "They were right! They were all right! You're nothing but a FREAK!" John slammed the door behind him and went running down the tracks.

Sherlock immediately dropped his smile, running to the bomb and tearing out the utility kit he always kept in his pocket. He told himself that there was no time for tears as he laid out his tools and got to work, but he could barely see past the water blurring his eyes as he opened up the bomb. He pointed his flashlight at the area he was working, his wrapped up fingers making everything clumsy and slow in the dim red light, but he still was able to hold the small screwdriver in his hands without too much problem. He told himself over and over that John's words didn't hurt, but they did and Sherlock just wanted his feelings to go back to being locked away like they were before he ever met John because they hurt so bad he just wanted to die. He knew exactly why he was in so much pain, but the more he tried to ignore it, the worse it got. Sherlock just wanted to give up, let the bomb go off, and face his death right then and there, but he had to hold on just a little longer if he wanted to save John. He had to find the right wires that would stop the countdown until John was out of the hidden station and safe above the ground. There was no other choice, he only had to hold it together for a few more minutes and then he could let go. Sherlock found the right wires, cut them, and attached them to a different area right as the timer hit twenty five seconds left. All he had to do was hold them in place for four minutes thirty seven seconds more and he could let go when John was a safe distance away. The timer was slowed down considerably and would probably last another fifteen minutes, but that wouldn't make a difference when the bomb would go off either way.

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking around at the carriage that would be the last thing he ever saw and just let himself cry. He hated feelings. They were so messy and useless, but it was nice to let himself go for once, relaxing his shoulders and letting quiet tears fall from his eyes without anyone being there to see or judge. The carriage was quiet and lonely, the only sounds being the faint blinking sound of the dull red light and his own shaky breathing. 

Three minutes forty one seconds.

Sherlock watched the timer as it slowly changed from one number to the next, laughing at himself for being so useless. He knew how to slow the timer of a bomb but not stop it? Worthless information. He held the wires in place as he bent over on himself, laughing at his completely unneeded information as he cried at the same time, the laughter just a disguise for the sobs tearing at his throat. 

Two minutes fifty nine seconds.

The laughter quickly died and gave out to the pain of chasing John away. Sherlock didn't understand people well and couldn't grasp basic social rules like not smiling at the scene of a murder and had no clue what small talk was, but he did know John. John was the most amazing thing to ever happen to him and he had ruined it by taking John on the stupid case that almost got both of them killed. John was beautiful and strong and kind and fascinatingly complicated and everything Sherlock had ever wanted, but John was gone. John had left thinking what everyone else did; thinking that he was just some messed up freak. 

Two minutes

John had gone and Sherlock was broken, sitting in an empty carriage while holding onto a bomb to keep it from detonating for a few minutes just to save one person, all the while sobbing like a small child. Mycroft had always warned him of this. Caring wasn't an advantage and it would one day get him killed, but Sherlock imagined that Mycroft didn't know that when caring finally did get him killed, it would be worth it. All of this was worth it, the bomb, the loneliness, the crying, the feelings, the timer counting down moments of his life, the fact that he was going to die. All of this and more would be worth it for John Watson, because John kept him right. 

One minute twenty two seconds.

Sherlock finally knew what that meant. He knew what it meant that John was the one who kept him right. He knew that it meant what he said, but he also knew that it had a different meaning. The type of thing he couldn't say to a man in a committed relationship with a woman, but he could say whenever he wanted to as long as he never used the three words.

One minute.

Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining where John was right now. He was probably storming up the straps of the Westminster station, furious at Sherlock for lying and forcing any memories of the two of them far from his mind. He would be mad for the first week or so, going to 221B and tearing the flat to shreds while screaming. After that, he would probably take up drinking again for a while until he decided to forget all about the psychopathic freak he met back at Saint Bart's and move on. He would get a lovely house with Mary, soon after having a wedding. They would have kids and a cat that would play around, blissfully ignorant of the psychopath hidden away in their father's distant memories. Eventually they would grow old, their grandchildren playing pirates and princes and cowboys and detectives, and he would be able to thrill them with tales of his youth. The stories about how he solved a mystery about a lady in pink with a mad man; fought an illegal trading company with a doofus; solved a case of people strapped to bombs with drama queen; faced a supervillain in a pool with a heartless machine; a thrilling tale about Buckingham palace with a show-off dressed in a sheet; had an adventure defeating the blackmailing dominatrix with a virgin; saved kidnapped children from poisoned chocolate with an arrogant cock; watched a lying failure of a consulting detective fake his suicide like the heartless reptile he was; and finally got rid of the world's most horrible psychopath with the bomb he refused to turn off, killing hundreds of innocent people. Then, as John lay on his deathbed, he would think about Sherlock one last time, thinking about how he had once considered the crime, coffee, and drug dependent addict a friend before he left that friend to blow himself up. His last thought before he died would be thanking god that he would be going to heaven so he wouldn't be stuck in hell with the freak.

Ten seconds.

Sherlock bit his lip to stop his quiet shaking, the tears having soaked through his shirt sleeves long ago. There was nothing else he could do. There was nobody to save him, bomb disposal was probably never coming, the police were never called, and John was gone so there really wasn't a point in holding on any more. The silence was deafening as he took a deep breath, choosing his last words.

"I'm done, I've lived a shit life, and I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, am finally quitting." He paused for a second, and hoping that somehow John would know, he lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "I'm sorry John. I'm so bloody sorry."

"You can't get rid of me that easy you prick. I should have known you were going to pull something like this." Sherlock turned around to see John in the doorway, illuminated by the dim red light and smiling apologetically. He felt his eyes fill with tears again, so he just turned back to the bomb he was holding. John sighed, walking forward and sitting next to Sherlock nervously, looking down at the bomb as the numbers changed slowly. "Listen… I just fucked up. Really bad. I don't expect you to forgive me or anything, but I just wanted you to know that I am so, so sorry. What I did- what I said to you-" John's breath shook and he got choked up, rubbing his face to keep the tears at bay. "It was h- horrible and I- I am s- s- so sorr-" He had to stop talking for a moment, blinking hard a few times and turning away to rub away the tears.

"Why couldn't you just stay away?" Sherlock stared blankly at the wires he was holding in place. "You should have just left."

John sniffed a few times, wiping at his eyes furiously in an attempt to stop crying. Sherlock looked over with his own wet eyes thinking that there was way too much crying going on for two people about to be blown to bits. "I couldn't leave you. I didn't want to."

Sherlock looked around at the carriage for a bit, remembering how just a few minutes ago, he thought that it was lonely and the last thing he would ever see. "John, do you think you would ever be able to forgive me for how much hurt I caused you?"

John looked at Sherlock, pain and guilt in his eyes. "You're just trying to make me say something nice. Aren't you?" He chuckled a little at his attempt at a joke, but Sherlock's expression didn't change.

"No. I'm genuinely asking." He frowned down at the bomb. "If I hadn't dragged you into this… if I had just been a normal friend from the beginning…"

John shook his head quickly. "God, Sherlock. I never wanted you to be  _ normal _ , I just wanted you to not be dead." He lowered his voice softly, looking over to the taller man. "I just wanted you back." 

Sherlock chuckled a little dryly. "Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be sitting there because you felt guilty about leaving me with a bomb and you’d still have a future… with Mary." Sherlock thought back to what he imagined earlier.

John shook his head slowly. "I didn't come back because I felt guilty, I came back because once I reached the Westminster station, I realized what you did and what I said, and I knew I had to come back. Yeah. I know that it sounds foolish to you, but I tried living without you once and it didn't work well. Now that I have you back, I'm not letting you out of my sight again." He grimaced and turned away. Sherlock's gaze flickered over John's hunched figure for a bit until finally John turned back. "Look, I find it difficult." Sherlock nodded, his head lowered. "I find it difficult, this sort of stuff."

Sherlock looked up at John, their eyes meeting. "I know. It's always hard to talk about it."

John blew out a breath, lowering his head, then he straightened up and looked at Sherlock, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known. I had to lose this big part of me that I found when I met you and it took a toll that almost cost me everything including my, um…"

Sherlock looked back down to the bomb. "Your will to live."

John nodded. "You asked if I could forgive you, but I already have. I just wanted you to be alive and now, we're on a case threatening our lives again and it's like normal came back."

Sherlock smiled sadly, looking John in the eyes. "We're both going to die the very moment I move my hands. You know that, right?"

John nodded, brushing a bit of Sherlock's hair away from his forehead. "I know. When we go, I know that there's nobody I would rather die with."

They both smiled sadly, accepting their fate as they pressed their foreheads together and closed their eyes, waiting for the timer to run out, unable to do anything but wait for their lives to end. There was a promise made without speaking that they would never leave each other again.

* * *

Daffodils symbolize honesty and truth. They can also stand for  **_forgiveness_ ** . They bloom each spring almost regardless of the winter weather.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**A Yellow Acacia To The Doctor**

John and Sherlock laughed out of genuine relief when they heard the footsteps and walkie talkie chatter outside of the carriage, bomb disposal finally arriving just in time. They had made quick work of the bomb, letting Sherlock release the wires he held so that he could wrap his arms around John who was practically crying out of happiness. There were people swarming around the carriage for a while before Sherlock could take his army doctor and escape from the madness, but at the first chance, be grabbed John's hand and sprinted away down the tracks and into the abandoned train station where Lestrade tried to stop them. He ended up chasing them both through the tunnels and through Westminster station, but Sherlock knew the city better above the ground and effectively lost the detective in the first few minutes, perfectly avoiding the question from the police and the complaints of paperwork from Lestrade. The two of them ran all the way back to Baker Street, slamming the door behind them and falling down onto the stairs panting and laughing until Mrs. Hudson came around and shooed them away with a broom and the promise of biscuits. After something as traumatic as holding onto a bomb that was about to explode, the two of them just sat in their respective chairs, watching each other breathe with small smiles.

Two weeks later, outside the door to 221B, reporters and photographers milled around on the road, waiting for Sherlock to tell them their story. Sherlock was on the phone, talking to Mycroft in his room while slipping into a shirt. "Mycroft, you were the one who offered them the tickets. It is only fitting that you are the one to take them."

Over the phone drifted Mycroft’s voice, his tone desperate. "Sherlock, please. I beg of you. You can take over at the interval." 

Sherlock walked over to the wardrobe mirror and pressed his phone between his ear and shoulder, buttoning his jacket over his purple shirt. It looked like a nice color on him, so he made a mental note to buy more clothing items in purple. "Oh, I’m sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There’s nothing I can do to help."

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "But you don’t understand the pain of it… the horror!" 

Grinning, Sherlock decided to change the subject to something more interesting. "Didn't you take Gregory a few days ago? I thought you said it was interesting."

Mycroft let out a groan of horror. "That is besides the point Sherlock. He is not our parents."

Sherlock nodded with a smile. "I do know that Mycroft. How did it go by the way?"

Mycroft paused for a while, the only sign he didn't hand up in the lack of a dial tone. "He liked the quote."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And? What did he say?"

Mycroft left a large pause again and Sherlock sighed, arranging his hair in front of the mirror while Mycroft let his brain trail off. "It's complicated." Sherlock scoffed and he could practically feel Mycroft's scowl through the phone. "Alright. He said yes, but doesn't want to have any type of thoughts about a wedding for another few years at least. He said it was because we have only been serious for a year and wants some time to sort out his life before letting someone that close again."

Sherlock smiled, chuckling a bit. "That sounds perfectly reasonable. After all brother, you have recently become a mess because of him." Before Mycroft could say anything, he ended the call and turned to John who approached along the corridor.

"Come on." John knocked before opening the door a second later and smiling as he looked Sherlock up and down with a kind eye. "You’ll have to go down. They want the story." Rolling his eyes, Sherlock walked past him as he reached out, pulling a loose string from the back of the coat. "You look fine. Stop worrying about it. Just because Molly's bringing her fiance doesn't mean you have to impress him."

Sherlock shook his head as they walked into the living room. "I am not attempting to be impressive John. Intimidation is key here." He quickly walked away from John over to Mary who was sitting on the sofa holding a glass of champagne. 

He approached her with a grin as she stood up, holding out her arms. "Sherlock! Thank you again for allowing us all over." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek as he embraced her gently. "Mrs. Hudson and I were just discussing how to announce the engagement between John and I to the press. After news got around that you came back and John was immediately engaged, your wedding became the topic of papers all over the world." 

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in the nearby chair close to Mary and she nodded. "It was a surprise for all of us. Too bad the rumors weren't true." 

"Mrs. Hudson. Please refrain from the jokes."

Sherlock smiled softly at his landlady before moving over to Greg who was sitting in John’s chair, also holding a champagne glass, reaching out to shake hands. "If course, that isn't the only reason we came over, but it is easiest to discuss."

Sherlock nodded, shaking Greg's hand and immediately looking down at the feeling of metal against his fingers. "Of course… Gregory."

Sherlock released Greg's hand with a knowing smile to himself as he walked to the kitchen, leaving Greg to mouth 'He remembered my name?' to John silently. Sherlock popped the cork on a new bottle of champagne and walked back across the room with the bottle and a glass, kneeling down beside the coffee table to pour.

Mrs. Hudson had jumped right back into conversation with Mary once Sherlock left the room and they began to talk about wedding dates. "Oh, I’m really pleased, Mary. Have you set a date?"

Mary shrugged, sipping her glass. "Er, well we thought May."

Mrs. Hudson was delighted. "Oh! Spring wedding!"

Mary chuckled a bit. "Yeah. Well, we are lucky that we actually got engaged."

John nodded, agreeing. "Yeah."

Mary looked pointedly at Sherlock. "We were interrupted last time John tried."

John grinned at her with love. "Yeah." Sherlock smiled at Mary kindly, catching her eye quickly.

Lestrade grinned, raising his glass in a toast. "Well, I can’t wait." John, who had just put his jacket on, smiled round at him. Sherlock stood up and walked across towards the far window, putting down the glass he just poured, his stomach clenching painfully.

Mary smiled up at him softly. "You will be there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged a little. "Weddings are… not really my thing." He looked uncomfortably down to the road below the window. "I tend to end up being blamed for ruining them." He looked across the room at her when he noticed the awkward silence he had caused. She smiled sadly as the door opened.

Molly waved brightly as she pulled at her scarf. "Hello, everyone."

John grinned, walking over to greet her at the door. "Hey, Molly."

Molly held up the hand she was holding with the man accompanying her. "This is Tom. Tom, this is everyone." John stared at her boyfriend, doing a quick double-take before looking across the room to where Sherlock was looking out of the window. 

Tom grinned. "Hi."

John continued to look at him in surprise. The man was tall and slender, had dark curly hair a little shorter than Sherlock’s, large pale blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. He was wearing a dark coat with the collar turned up and the scarf around his neck tied the same way that Sherlock tied his. Lestrade decided to take the first move, snapping out of shock the quickest. "Hi Tom. I'm Greg."

Tom smiled warmly. "It’s really nice to meet you all." He looked down at John, eyes widening just a little before holding out his hand. "Hi there." 

John looked him up and down, grinning awkwardly before pulling himself together. "Wow. Yeah, hi. I’m John. Good to meet you." He shook Tom's hand, shooting a look over to Mary who was snickering as Tom held on just a little too long. Getting no help from her, he looks across to Sherlock, who finally turned round from the window.

Sherlock looked towards John as the doctor walked towards the window. "Ready John?"

John nodded. "Ready."

Tom turned to meet Sherlock, who smiled down at Greg while walking past, then caught sight of Tom for the first time. He stopped dead and his eyes widened in surprise. Tom looked equally wide-eyed as Sherlock gave him the once-over from his feet upwards, his shock quickly turning into anger, the only evidence of the fact being the narrowing of his eyes.

Lestrade walked across the room behind them, deciding to save the day again. "Champagne?"

Molly nodded graciously. "Yes. Thank you."

Sherlock turned his eyes towards John, who grinned back at him expectantly until finally Sherlock held out his hand to Tom, shaking it coldly. Glancing quickly down at Molly, Sherlock walked in between the couple and out of the door. Tom turned to watch him go for a moment before glancing back to John. Greg handed Molly a glass of champagne kindly as John started to follow Sherlock, but stopped briefly to take another look at Tom, who was staring at him with a strange look in his eye.

Tom smiled at him strangely. "Goodbye John." John still couldn't quite take in the similarity between him and Sherlock, so he headed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Outside on the landing, John walked over to Sherlock, who was looping his scarf around his neck angrily. John pointed back towards the door, lowering his voice. "What do you think?"

Sherlock yanked on his scarf silently for a while, fuming quietly while glaring at the door. "He's cheating."

John nodded. "With a man, right?"

Sherlock glared at the door. "At least three." He looked over to John silently. "What do we do?"

John shrugged. "I'm not sure. Pity she only seems to like the gay guys, maybe it means something."

Sherlock huffed silently, burning holes through the door with his eyes. "Maybe." Moving towards the door quickly, Sherlock opened it and popped his head in before John could stop him. "Molly?"

She looked up from where she was sitting on the couch. "Yes Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled pleasantly, covering his fury easily. "Remember the question we thought we would never find out about _Jim_? Well the answer is definitely YES with Tom." Sherlock popped back out the door, shutting it behind him and waiting a few seconds for Molly to understand. John was silent for those few seconds, no noise coming from the flat. Then, a loud slap was heard from inside, causing both John and Sherlock to wince as Molly stomped towards the door and threw it open. 

Both of them noticed the lack of ring on her finger as she breathed heavily, tears in her eyes. She looked up at Sherlock sadly as the door closed behind her. "You're a complete ass." She paused a moment, looking down at the ground before slowly leaning into Sherlock's chest, shaking. Sherlock gingerly wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back comfortingly as she let out a few hiccuping sobs before taking a deep breath to calm herself. "Thank you. I almost married a gay man."

Sherlock patted her back lightly. "If it makes you feel better about slapping him, he was cheating on you with three different men." John shot him a 'shut the hell up' look and Sherlock grimaced. "Not good?"

John nodded before gently rubbing Molly's back as she started shaking again. "Yeah. A bit not good."

Molly started laughing at that moment, shocking both men that were attempting to comfort her. "He really was just like Jim."

Sherlock grinned widely as Molly chuckled. "A whore!" He clapped a few times, pleased at finally having an inside joke with a friend. 

John chuckled at the sight of the smile on Sherlock's face. "Oh, you’re enjoying this."

Sherlock looked at John questioningly. "What?"

John smiled softly. "Being back. Being a hero again. You can't tell me you won't miss it in law school or playing the violin in Chicago."

Sherlock shook his head. "Oh, don’t be daft."

Molly looked back and forth between the two of them, confused but still smiling. "Law school? Chicago? Sherlock?" She spent a few moments just staring before accepting that she had accidentally become a third wheel. "I have to go to sort some things out. Bye." She slipped down the stairs silently, looking back up briefly with a knowing smile.

John just crossed his arms, amused. "You’d have to be an idiot not to see that you love it."

Sherlock smiled at John sadly. "There's no such thing as heroes. Even if there was, I wouldn't be one. Not me John." He knew that he would never be a hero because heroes save people, but he would only ever be willing to save one person.

John shrugged lightly, starting to walk down the stairs and forcing Sherlock to follow. "There may not be heroes, but there are consulting detectives."

Sherlock hopped from step to step after John, counting each step that he bounced down. “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. I was the first consulting detective and now I’ve retired. There's nothing I could really do now.”

John stopped at the bottom of the steps, causing Sherlock to pause a few up. “You said first. Are there more?”

Sherlock laughed a little, passing John to finish counting his steps. “Of course. You’re my partner. Who else would it be?”

John smiled at Sherlock with warmth. “Well, since I’m the only consulting detective still active now, I’m going to need a partner.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. “You can't keep working! It’s dangerous. The whole reason I left the position was so you would be safe from all of that.”

John just grinned. “Who told you that I ever wanted to be safe?”

Sherlock scoffed, turning away from John to hide his smile and licking his lips before turning back. “A bloody idiot is what you are John Watson. A bloody idiot.” He swiped his hands through his hair, laughing a bit before looking John in the eye with a small smile. “You keep me right John. You always keep me right.”

John pressed his lips together, chuckling. “What does _that_ mean?”

Sherlock let his smile fade out a bit and stepped closer to the doctor, only a few inches separating them. “It means that I almost came back. So many times. I came back to London to tell you, but I couldn’t. Not until you were safe. Not until I could make it so that Moriarty couldn’t hurt you.”

John looked up into Sherlock’s multicolored eyes. “I went to Barts. I visited your grave. Were you there?”

Sherlock nodded. “I couldn’t leave you. Not after I saw what I had done to you. Not after I saw you on the roof. I heard you and I promise I won’t leave you again. This is my miracle. I heard you John.”

John smiled, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat, stepping away a reasonable amount. “Umm, we should go.”

Sherlock nodded, gesturing to the door and letting John move first. “Oh course. After you John.”

  
  


* * *

Yellow Acacia. This pretty flower signifies the value of true friendship and can indicate a **_secret love._ **

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Hang Them A Cut Of Mistletoe**

  
  


Sherlock took a deep breath, picking up his violin and positioning it lightly under his chin. He pressed his fingers against the neck and placed the bow gently to the strings, pulling until a clear note was drawn out, moving his fingers in a soft sort of fluidity as a melody poured out. It was a smooth piece that he had played hundreds of times over the last seven months, first starting to compose it after the bomb incident when John had fallen asleep in his chair. The tune had come to him while watching the rise and fall of John's chest as the doctor steadily drifted to sleep in his chair, exhausted from the day. Sherlock had filled his brain with notes, letting them slip over him like water as he sat in his own chair watching John be alive. The tune had come and it wouldn't let go easily, so Sherlock just did what came naturally and picked up his violin, quietly as not to disturb John, and let the notes softly pour from his instrument. It transformed into a waltz slowly, the hauntingly beautiful melody floating along at a gentle pace into the flat as Sherlock took the realization from the train carriage and translated into music. He poured all of his emotions into that one song, putting a voice to all of the fear, hopelessness, sadness, and desperation that had been consuming him when John had come back. He put a voice to all of the feelings he didn't understand how to react to and just let them hang in the song like they belonged there because they did. Sherlock wrote it about John and the things he would never be able to say to the doctor out loud, but also accepted that nothing would ever happen between the two of them. Sherlock had woven heartbreak into the song, but also resigned acceptance and approval of Mary, deeming her to be an alright partner for John. The pain of playing with his broken hands was fitting, reminding him the next few days that unrequited love was unbecoming. Molly may or may not have scolded him mercilessly for the utter stupidity of playing the violin with burns when he came into St. Bart's the next day, the bandages on his hands soaked with blood, but it was nothing compared to Scotland Yard. Everything was different. Everyone had read the papers over the few fast paced weeks and saw the news, having found out that their favorite sociopath to make fun of actually had feelings. He was treated differently by everyone, almost as if he was delicate as sugar glass. Only Donovan treated him relatively the same, still calling him freak, even if it had become less of a taunt and just a habit as if she actually forgot his name and replaced it with whatever. Their work relationship had not improved, but there were less deliberate jabs and more respect than usual. Many people had become angry at her for still being a bitch, but gained Sherlock's grudging respect because she was a damn good cop and was only doing what she thought was best.

Sherlock played the song slowly until hearing a door open behind him, causing him to stop and put down the violin. "Hello John."

John smiled a bit before grabbing Sherlock's coat and pulling it from the hook. "You know, I always found it interesting that you can recognize someone just by the sound of their footsteps." 

Sherlock shrugged before turning around. "It's quite simple if you listen close enough." He moved towards the kitchen to quickly grab two beakers before heading to the door, taking the coat as he was offered, and smiled at John as they walked down the stairs together. "Where are we headed first?"

John smiled to himself, putting a secretive finger to his lips. "I'm not telling you quite yet." He opened the door for Sherlock to reveal a taxi waiting outside. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John with a joking smirk. "Isn't this called kidnapping? It is highly illegal, John, and I would have thought better of you."

John chuckled, shaking his head and pulling Sherlock into the cab after him. They talked the whole ride about the wedding and color schemes and music choices until they arrived at their destination. John had brought Sherlock to the pub he usually met Lestrade and Anderson at on the weekends, quickly introducing him to Matt who nearly had a heart attack when the detective plopped the two beakers onto the counter. They made it a few hours before getting too drunk to stay, much less stand up correctly, as more people bought them beers and shots. It was just like the first time John had come in with Greg, everyone offering their condolences and buying them drinks when they found out who the two of them were, but this time being in celebration. Sherlock quickly stopped John from drinking after a few rounds, recording every ounce of alcohol that John drank almost religiously and grabbing away every shot of something stronger before John could even touch it. That didn't mean that John wasn't given things to drink before Sherlock could intervene, just recording it with a disapproving look at whatever well wisher had shoved the drink into John's hands. Will quickly called them a cab laughing when Sherlock almost got into a fist fight with one of the regulars about the differences between pipe ash and cigarette, both of them drunk as skunks. The two men were taken to their cab, much more drunk than either of them were originally planning, stumbling out of the vehicle and into 221B to trip and fall on the stairs. John ended up half draped on Sherlock before Mrs. Hudson came around with a broom, shoving them up the stairs and telling them to go to sleep before they broke something. 

They ended up playing a few games, somehow resulting in John having "Madonna" taped to his head. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, staring at Sherlock. "Am I a vegetable?"

Sherlock pointed at John, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he burped a bit, drunk to the point where everything was buzzing. "You, or the thing?"

They both snicker and John leaned on the armrest if his chair. "Funny! That was funny!"

Sherlock looked down bashfully while grinning at John in a pleased manner, blushing a bit. "Thank you."

John grinned back, biting his lip. "Come on. Vegetable?"

Sherlock raised his head again, squinting at John like an old man and leaning forward in his seat. "No, you’re not a vegetable."

John picked up his own glass, taking a long drink. "It’s your go."

Sherlock flopped back into his seat, scrunching up his nose in thought. "Errr… am I human?"

John shrugged. "Sometimes."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, confused. "Can’t have ‘sometimes’. Has to be, um… all times." He struggled to pull himself up a little in his chair, raising his eyebrows at John in a challenge.

John nodded a bit. "Yes, you’re human." He put his glass down on the floor, slumping back in his seat.

Sherlock nodded, moving his head strangely as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. "...Okay." He leaned forward woozily, bracing his upper arms on his legs and looking at the color of John's eyes, a little bit distracted. "And am I a man?"

"Yep."

"Tall?"

"Not as tall as people think."

"Hmm. Am I nice?"

"Ish."

"Clever?"

John shrugged. "I’d say so."

Sherlock smiled. "You would? I'd say you're rather… clever too." John chuckled, causing Sherlock to grin and clap his hands a bit at being able to make John laugh. "Mmm, am I important?"

John gently ran his fingers over his lips, pulling them into a fist he could lean his chin on. "To s-some people."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose, laughing. "Am I important to you?"

John smiled softly at Sherlock, moving his hand back over his mouth to try and hide the smile. "More than you would ever let yourself realize."

Sherlock blushed a nice color of red, leaning forward and propping his chin on his hands. "Do people usually like me?"

John reached for his glass, but didn't pick it up. "Er, no, they don’t. You tend to rub ’em up the wrong way."

"Okay." John sniggered a little, watching as Sherlock slumped back in his chair and then immediately popped up to lean forward again. "Am I the current king of England?"

"Are you...?" John cackled with laughter, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet with the absurdity of the thought. "You know we don’t have a king?"

Sherlock looked at his glass as if it had all the answers and lied to him. "Don’t we?"

John chuckled again. "Noooo silly."

Sherlock sat back to think, taking a sip from his drink. "Your go."

Unfolding his legs, John shifted forward until he was sitting on the very edge of his seat, instantly starting to slide off and reaching out to brace himself with one hand on Sherlock’s right leg. He pushed himself back up onto his seat a little, the both of them then looking down at where his hand was. Sherlock watched as John slowly pulled it away, the heat leaving an imprint that nearly burned with the intensity of the missed contact, so he held both his hands out to help John the rest of the way up. His heart was pounding and he felt like he was on fire as he wrapped his hands around John's arms to push him up when he started slipping again. Sherlock couldn't help but feel the shape of John's arms under the rather ridiculously thin shirt as his biceps flexed a bit when he pushed himself back up on Sherlock's knees. He swallowed thickly, feeling a very unfamiliar heat growing in the pit of his stomach when John licked his lips, pulling the bottom lip into his mouth to bite at gently.

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes, pupils becoming slowly wider as he definitely noticed where the taller man's eyes were focused. "I don’t mind. If you want…"

Sherlock just shook his head, letting go of John's biceps to lean back in his seat, raising his glass and shrugging to indicate that he wasn't bothered by the moment. He let the moment slide away into silence, both men taking a few sips from their respective drinks.

"Am I a woman?" John put down his glass, breaking the silence.

Sherlock looked at him for a second in confusion, then snorted in laughter. He chuckled for a few moments, just grinning.

John pouted a bit. "What?"

Sherlock tried again to straighten himself up on the chair as he grinned. "Yes."

John paused for a few moments, looking into Sherlock's bright eyes again. "Am I… pretty?" He pointed up to the paper stuck to his head. "This."

Sherlock shrugged. "Er, beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models."

John snorted. "Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?" He batted his eyelashes and tilted his head a certain way when he looked at Sherlock, who leaned forward and screwed up his eyes to peer at the paper to distract himself from John.

Sherlock leaned back, sighing. "I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you’re supposed to be."

John laughed. "You picked the name!"

Sherlock flailed a hand towards another part of the room. "Ah, but I picked it at random from the papers."

John slumped back in his seat. "You’re not really getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged, raising his eyes towards his own paper. "So I am a human, I’m not as tall as people think I am." He sat back in the chair, pushing a hand through his hair. "I’m- I’m nice-ish." He noticed immediately when John stretched out his socked feet and propped them against the front of Sherlock’s chair next to his own legs. "Well, erm… I'm clever, important to you, important to some people, but I tend to rub them up the wrong way." He paused for a few moments before laughing with delight. "Got it."

John smiled. "Go on, then."

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. "I’m you, aren’t I?"

John laughed in delight, causing Sherlock to melt. "Nope!"

Sherlock chuckled, looking at John and falling silent as their eyes met. He smiled while looking at his friend, his _best_ friend, and leaned forward. "Am I allowed one last question?" He leaned closer, heart thudding behind his ribs in suspense, brain flooding with heat and want. It was thrilling to watch every centimeter that John moved closer, both of them leaning towards each other until there was only a little bit of space between them. 

John smiled a little, his face flushed with both heat and alcohol, his breath smelling like whiskey. "Yeah. One more question." Sherlock let his eyes flicker everywhere as he read John like a book, slipping his hand slowly to John's arm, causing his breath to hitch, completely breathless in anticipation. John's pulse was racing so fast that Sherlock could practically hear it as the doctor's pupils grew wider steadily, his eyes going dark and animalistic with want and need.

Sherlock could feel the heat pouring from his own body, stomach flipping out of excitement as his mouth formed words he wasn't sure even came from his drunken brain. "Would you…" His eyes grew heavy and dark, switching from simple want to something he had no idea how to describe as it sent electricity through his body and made him clench his fists to keep them from doing something stupid. His voice dropped to a whisper, his deep tone turning into something more akin to a growl as he leaned forward just a little bit more. "Would you ever think about… kissing me?" 

John leaned back a bit, taking off the piece of paper from Sherlock's head and showing him that it was his own name before leaning back in, the distance slowly closing as he smiled. "Yeah. Yeah I have a lot."

Sherlock felt the light brush of lips against his own and the heat on the pit of his stomach exploded. His heart was racing from one simple touch, not even a proper kiss, but he wanted more. Closing his eyes and pressing harder, Sherlock felt his lips connect with John's again, this time deeper and more meaningful. The heat quickly filled the space between them as he moved to push John back in his chair, climbing lightly on top and straddling his friend's hips. The feelings racing through his body were exhilarating to say the least as his hands instinctively moved to John's chest when he slipped his hand up the side of Sherlock's body and to the side of his neck. Sherlock felt around John's mouth with his own, dizzy with the pleasure radiating from every pore as he peppered the hot kisses against John's mouth and jaw, the feeling of soft skin under his mouth brilliant. John's taste was amazing to the detective, from the rough line of John's jaw covered in the smallest amount of stubble to the soft skin of his neck that Sherlock immediately took into his mouth, sucking on it and causing John to moan, pulling on Sherlock's hair. The noises Sherlock could force John to make were limitless as he pushed down with his hips to rub up against John who was already hard, causing him to let out a strangled gasp and throw his head back. Sherlock teased the skin of John's neck lightly with his tongue, licking a line from his collar bone, over his adams apple, and up the underside of his jaw, Sherlock just barely able to restrain himself from sinking his teeth down and creating giant purple bruises. There was so much he could do to take John completely apart, moving back up to John's mouth and biting his bottom lip lightly in between open mouthed panting and kissing his lips again. Sherlock let his tongue wander around John's mouth to experiment and learn each little thing that would make John shiver lightly and which ones would make John tremble to pieces, the wet lips moving against his own almost as needy for more. 

Sherlock pushed his hips down again, moving a little up and down and causing John to grab him by the hair to press their lips together harder as he rubbed against Sherlock, desperately moaning for more friction. There was a moment where they had to stop as Sherlock pulled away John's shirt, but they were back on each other in moments, kissing and licking into each other's mouths. Their tongues fought furiously, pushing and turning with each movement of their hips pressing together. Sherlock pulled his hands down John's body softly to make his way down to John's trousers, popping the button and pulling down the zipper before John stopped his hands. "No. Not here."

Sherlock nodded, standing up and pulling John with him to press their bodies together and wrap his arms around his best friend's waist, kissing his jaw lightly with a small giggle that sent shivers through John's body. He walked backwards awkwardly with John in his arms, laughing as John leaned against him, hopping along on one foot while struggling to escape his trousers. When he finally escaped, Sherlock let himself be pressed against the door of his room so that John could start working at the buttons of his purple shirt to peel it away and drop it to the floor. Sherlock's hand found the door handle, pressing it down and causing the door to swing open, sending them to the floor with surprised shouts, but Sherlock couldn't help but smile when John started laughing. He took a moment to watch as the blue eyes filled with mirth, cheeks pink, hair ruffled, and lips red and kiss swollen, then sighed in contentment, storing away the heavenly moment in his Mind Palace. John was perfect. Amazing. Brilliant. Completely Sherlock's in that one moment, nobody else's. 

Sherlock was grinning unashamed when John placed a delicate kiss on his lips and pulled him to his feet before tipping him onto the bed and letting the door swing shut. John smiled, enraptured by the sight of Sherlock under him, and pressed their foreheads together gently just like the night in the bomb carriage. "Hey."

"Hey." Sherlock smiled softly, looking into the blue eyes staring into his own. John brushed a soft kiss on his lips and he blushed bright red in response. "John?"

"Hmm?" John gently kissed his jaw and down his neck softly.

Sherlock reached to gently stroke John's cheek, guiding his face back up to look into his eyes. "John Watson, you keep me right."

John grinned, blushing and pressing another soft kiss to Sherlock's mouth. "I love you too Sherlock." He licked his lips before kissing the detective again. "I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

Sherlock was buzzing from happiness as he pulled John's face down to kiss him again. "I… I… I do too." He couldn't quite say it, but that was okay. Everything in that moment was too good not to be. All he could do was smile and trail his hands up and down John's back, settling lightly on the large scar right under his shoulder and tracing the lines that created the man he loved most. 

Sherlock closed his eyes in ecstasy when John started kissing his neck and biting gently to leave small purple bruises along his collar bone, laughing in delight whenever John hummed against his skin. John kept moving down, biting the purple marks all over Sherlock's chest and leaving his nipples red where he had teased them with his tongue, sucking long lines on Sherlock's stomach and leaving red bite marks all over his hips. Sherlock just bit his lip, fingers tangled in John's hair and the bedsheets, panting with his head thrown back and his eyelids fluttering. He gasped when John pressed a kiss through the fabric of his trousers that had gotten much too tight between his legs, and his breath hitched when he felt John's fingers working at the button and pulling away the fabric to push it down Sherlock's thighs and off his legs. John bent Sherlock's bare legs up, biting the soft skin on his thighs and kissing the scars on his legs, covering each scar with dark bruises to replace the memory of pain with something sweeter. Something hundreds of times better than the cold, lonely nights having to run from Moriarty's men and suicidal episodes. John kissed the insides of Sherlock's thighs, teasing him and making him shake with pleasure, gasping and breathing out John's name over and over. Sherlock gasped with every open mouthed kiss placed just a few centimeters from where he really wanted it, his legs shaking as he pressed them desperately against John's back from where they were thrown over his friend's shoulders. 

Sherlock let out a shaking gasp when he felt John's mouth touch his painful erection, the feeling having surprised him while sending heat through his body, shocking him into momentary sobriety. His face turned red and his eyes widened when he heard the moans passing his own lips, clapping a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle the noises, but failing when John sank his head down and Sherlock let out a cry of pure bliss. He grasped desperately at the sheets of his bed, letting out whimpers every time John bobbed his head or moved his tongue. Sherlock felt his whole body tense up and whispered John's name a few times, half terrified, half drowned in euphoria and alcohol, completely at John's mercy. He was about ready to collapse when John stopped, Sherlock looking down to see him hovering a few inches away from where he previously was, a confused look on his face.

"John?"

"Something's not supposed to…?"

Sherlock blinked heavily a few times, looking down to where John was zoning out between his legs. He felt a lurch of panic through his drunken haze, wondering if maybe his penis was broken and that's why John had stopped. There was some sort of warped logic working its way through the brain fog, so Sherlock pulled John back up to his face, kissing him and snapping him back to as much of a reality that existed at the moment. 

Sherlock flipped on top of John, pushing his tongue forcefully into John's mouth and slipping between his legs. He bit at John's lips, making them red and swollen while he rocked up against John's hips, pressing himself down to create friction through the thin cloth of John's pants. Sherlock could feel the throbbing of blood swelling and rushing down to John's erection through his own, craving it desperately as a small wet spot formed where the tip of John's dick was straining dangerously against the fabric. Dragging his palm down John's body as he sucked on his tongue, sloppy and uncoordinated from the haze in his brain, he pinned down the hand trying to push him away and tugged down the waistband of the pants that were just in the bloody way. Sherlock yanked away the fabric, his hand automatically moving to the base of John's cock and pulling upwards, slow and firm while John whined pitifully into his mouth until he just let himself be taken. John moaned and gasped when Sherlock moved his hand, all of it muffled from his tongue exploring John's mouth religiously as John shook and thrusted into Sherlock's hand. He was desperate for the fast pace and heat Sherlock refused to give him with the lazy strokes, bringing his thumb over the slit to drag the precum down the length leisurely, making it so sluggish so he could feel John twitch and shudder with the desperate tenseness of his muscles. Sherlock slowly built speed, releasing John's mouth to kiss and suck at his neck delicately. Finding that it was too dry, Sherlock swiped the tip of John's dick, gathering precum on his first two fingers and brought it to his mouth, sucking them off and covering them with saliva, causing John's face to go bright red with arousal. 

John stared with wide eyes and breathed heavily as Sherlock licked his fingers slowly, letting his mouth fall open with clear want when Sherlock reached down between their bodies again. Sherlock picked up at the pace he left at, causing John to moan and throw his head back, gasping and mumbling incoherent sentences, but clearly begging for something. Begging for more. Begging for Sherlock. He could do nothing but oblige when he heard John gasp his name, pleading and grabbing his arms desperately panting. "Sherlock! Oh god- oh fuck. Please. Oh god please!"

Sherlock trapped John's mouth with his own again, rocking his hips in rhythm with his hand and felt John tense up, shaking and gasping. With a choked sob, he let go, releasing all over Sherlock's hand and collapsing to the bed. Sherlock kept moving against John until his own orgasm was inevitable, shuddering with pleasure as heat rushed through his body so furiously that spots danced before his eyes and his back arched painfully. His head was spinning as he choked out a repetitive string of "John" when he moaned from the pleasure, collapsing onto the bed.

Sherlock's chest heaved painfully as he struggled to breathe properly, collapsing next to John in exhaustion. He let his lips tilt softly into a small smile directed towards the man next to him who was grinning wildly, out of breath and thrilled about it. John's eyes were soft, his pupils wide, but still there was such a beautiful blue shining through that he seemed to be staring right through Sherlock and into the brain that he thought was remarkable. John propped himself up on his elbows and leaned over Sherlock's chest, kissing his lips lightly and slipping in just a little tongue before pressing their foreheads together gently, both of them grinning and drunker than they thought would be possible without passing out. Sherlock was dizzy with delight, nearly delirious as he looked into John's captivating eyes, his own becoming heavy with satisfaction. He shifted a little, moving his arm up to his chest to hold John's hand that was resting there lightly, his fingers running over a gold band. Suddenly, a thought flashed through his mind and his smile dropped. "John?"

"Hmm?" He rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder lightly with a loopy grin on his face.

Sherlock looked over to his doctor who was cuddled up to his side with a sad smile. "You have a wedding ring. You're married."

John chuckled softly, drifting slowly into sleep. "We are? That's nice."

Sherlock smiled, his eyes closing gently as he pressed his lips against John's head. "It is."

  
  
  


* * *

Mistletoe is a magic plant of the Druids that symbolizes affection and means **_kiss me_ **.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**From A Peony To Queen Anne's Lace**

Sherlock was frozen, staring up at the ceiling and feeling like there was a black hole in his chest, pulling everything in and crushing it. His whole body was stiff against the warm form of John, still laying on his shoulder and blissfully unaware in the land of dreams. He had woken up with his head throbbing in pain, cold from the lack of blankets, and sore all over, only to find John sleeping on his shoulder and cause the reality if the situation to come crashing down on him. A lot of the night in the bar was blurry, but his Mind Palace had preserved almost everything from their time in the flat and he regretted all of it quickly. 

Sherlock slowly slipped his arm out from under John as not to wake him, moving off of the bed inch by inch, gently. When he finally was able to stand up, he looked back down to the peaceful face of John, guilt settling hard in the pit of his stomach. He had done something horribly wrong and it terrified him immensely as he tiptoed out of the room and slipped out the door, grabbing his pants from the floor before closing the door behind him. Slipping them on, he ran into the bathroom quickly, locking the door and falling heavily next to the toilet, heaving while tears burned his eyes. There would never be forgiveness for what he had done. John would know. John would be mad. John would _hate_ him. John. John. John. Sherlock stood back up, stumbling over to the sink and leaning onto it heavily, looking in the mirror and finally seeing what everyone else did. He finally saw the monster, the horrible person that everyone already saw. Looking into his own eyes, he saw fear, regret, hatred, disgust, and tears. He let his eyes travel down his neck to the red bite marks and purple bruises that continued down his chest and sides, feeling sick at the sight of them. Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face with both exhaustion and fear, pacing in the small bathroom and nearly hyperventilating from the thoughts racing through his brain. 

John would have never cheated under any circumstances in any normal situation, but he had trusted Sherlock and let his guard down to the point where mistakes were made. They were both drunk, so their judgement was impaired, but Sherlock was immediately responsible for initiating the physical contact in the first place. Sherlock had taken advantage of John's trust. He had used John's nature against him. What kind of person did that?

Sherlock took a long breath, holding it for a few seconds while he closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. He had to calm down, he had to think clearly. What did he know about what happened? They were both drunk and the only reason he remembered anything was because of his Mind Palace, so John would most likely not recall anything from the night before. That was… good to a degree. If John didn't remember, then he could set something up that was believable so that John would never have to find out about any of it. John would never know. If he could just lie about what happened good enough, then nothing would change and Sherlock would be able to keep his best friend. He looked down at the floor, determined to lie so well that there would be nothing to question. Sherlock needed to lie so well that he could trick _Mycroft_ into believing that nothing had happened. 

Sherlock took a deep breath one last time before unlocking the bathroom door and creeping back into his room, grabbing all of the clothing off the floor and swiping a clean suit from his closet. Slipping into the living room, he gathered all of John's clothes and brought them to the bathroom, dumping them unceremoniously onto the floor. He took a quick shower to both get clean and plant evidence, using John's shampoo to leave a faint smell of it in the bathroom. He dried off a little with a towel, leaving puddles on the floor before carefully walking out of the bathroom and into his room, being careful to leave wet footprints all the way to the bed where he dropped the towel, stepping carefully backwards in the exact spaces until he reached the bathroom again. His feet weren't the same size as John's, but it would have to stay that way as he pulled on clean clothes and quietly rushed into the living room again to erase any evidence of his being there while carrying the suit he wore the night before over his shoulder. He carefully removed slips of paper from the floor to return them to their box, taking the ones that they had used and slipping them into his pocket. Sherlock grabbed the almost empty glass of whiskey that rested on the floor by his chair, dumping it down the drain and cleaning the cup before replacing it in the cupboard exactly where it came from. He looked around the flat for signs that anything happened before pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen, needing to cover his tracks, so he wrote John a note. Sherlock looked at the clock quickly to see that it was almost 3:30. He couldn't do anything about the evidence on the bed without waking John up, but he could only hope John assumed something that wouldn't include Sherlock.

_Dear John,_

_I do apologize for my inability to be present when you awake for I have received an urgent case. The time is currently 11:30, so if you wake before I return, do please take a shower and eat something healthy for you. I do not know how long I shall be gone, so take care until my arrival. I suggest looking to Mike Stamford as your best man in case of emergency and/or failure to return in the five days until your wedding. Tell Mary that I have approved her to be your wife and that my acceptance is the highest of compliments._

_Well Wishes,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

Putting down the pen, Sherlock read his note once before placing it delicately on John's chair to stand alone in the middle of the silent flat. He moved back to his own room, looking over the sleeping form of his friend and pressed a feather-light kiss to John's temple, having placed all of the evidence he could and finally preparing to leave. Sherlock walked through the flat, grabbing his violin, and padded silently down the stairs and out the door to cast one last look up at 221B Baker Street. "Goodbye John Watson." 

Sherlock walked away and slipped into a dark alley, maneuvering through the bad parts of London that Mycroft couldn't possibly track him through so that he didn't have to deal with his older brother's stalking problem. When he reached an alleyway filled with old acquaintances from when he was high on drugs, he moved to sit in a dingy old corner and wait. It didn't take too long for a woman to slide up next to him with hands in her hoodie pockets. Her long red hair was braided in pigtails and there was black eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids to cover up the fact that there was a dark bruise under one of her caramel colored eyes.

"Well, if it isn't little Willabug the Hol-mo." She smirked at him, standing just a bit too close. "You finally sick of marital bliss with your mister? I haven't seen you in years."

Sherlock scowled before standing up and clutching his violin case to his side firmly so she didn't steal it. "Eloise Charlotte Barnes, I have no time for your ironically uncharacteristic homophobic jabs and I do believe we have a deal."

She sneered viciously at him, eyes narrowing dangerously as the dim light reflected off of her lip ring. "You call me that again Schezza and I'll stab you just like the last time you did. And besides, that deal got cut off when you made me read about your death in the papers over two and a half years ago and hadn't come to me after you got yourself to London. You absolute fucking cock!"

Sherlock sighed rolling his eyes. "Did you seriously believe any of that utter non-"

"Nah!" She shook her head, holding up a finger in the air to stop him. "Nah. Nuh uh. No. Nope. Shut it before I hurt you. Ya don't get to do that with me Shezza. From all of that shite put in the papers about that Moriarty fella, I didn't bloody well know what to believe 'bout you, but it damn well fuckin hurt to hear you dead. Didn't get invited to the funeral or nuthin, but I still went." She grinned, swiping her tongue over her lip ring. "Right well fun one too. Got to deck a dozen or so blokes that tried to crash the party all sneaky like. Wore black and everything. Stood by a nice lass in a frock who looked all pretty."

Sherlock winced. "I hear you haven't gotten rid of that horrendous mix of accents Lucky."

She snorted. "And I heard you died. Anyways, you try growing up in Britain with an Irish mum and Austie-Brooklyn dad. See how formal like you talk then."

Sherlock clutched his violin closer, tilting his head. "Does that mean the deal is still good?"

Lucky scowled for a bit. "How long you be needin?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. Two days at best, could be a month or so. If that happens, I'll find a place."

She frowned. "What are you running from Schezza?"

Sherlock glared at her, drawing himself up. "That is none of your business. Part of the deal was no questions."

Lucky sighed, holding her hand out and taking the violin. "Andi won't like this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I will deal with your grumpy spouse later, just take my damn violin and get me a sweater."

Lucky frowned. "You know, you don't have to pull sociopath on me. It gets dull and rather annoying."

"You're an ass."

"And you're tall. Stop sayin' facts."

"Meet me at 32-38 Northcote road in an hour. I'll be inside." 

"Fine that, but what are you doing with them clothes?"

Sherlock took the suit off of his shoulder where he had carried it, digging the two slips of paper from his pocket and crumpling them up before wrapping the clothes into a tight ball. "Lucky, if you will?" He handed the bundle to Lucky who accepted it reluctantly. "You take that somewhere nice and secluded then burn it."

Lucky rolled her eyes, but nodded. "Fine. But you take care ya hear?"

Sherlock nodded quickly, looking up and down the alleyway before sliding out of his corner. "You should know me better than that. I always take care of myself." Silently walking away from her, Sherlock stepped over druggies sleeping on mattress and drunk men slouched against the brick walls of the narrow alley until he got back onto a main street twenty minutes later. He took the long way to avoid cameras, not willing to risk calling a cab, and made his way slowly over to the flat owned by Molly Hooper, the last piece of his puzzle. Talking to Molly wasn't necessary, but there was one question she could answer to ease his mind and any truth, even the bad kind, was better than an unanswerable question weighing unnecessarily in thoughts.

Sherlock knocked on the door loud enough to let the resident know that there was someone at the door before whipping out his utility kit that he was (still) carrying around and picking the lock. It was a swift task and he silently pushed open the door before locking it behind him and moving farther into the dark flat. Sighing a little, he flopped down on a chair in the middle of the living room he just walked into, looking around at the small home with a kitchen off one side and a bedroom off the other, a bathroom in the far corner closest to the bedroom. It was a very small nice flat considering her job, but Sherlock presumed that she hadn't the use for large spaces when there was only one of her. He looked over to the bedroom when he heard a rustling from the other side of the closed door, so he quickly made his presence known by shuffling around in the chair. "Molly, don't turn on the light when you come in."

Molly opened the door with a sigh, looking out into the room where she could see the outline of Sherlock in the dark. "Sherlock? Is that you?"

"Yes it is. Seriously, who else would break into your flat in the middle of the night?" Sherlock let out a small chuckle, pulling his feet up onto the chair and hugging his legs.

Molly sighed, closing the door to her bedroom and leaning against it. "How long have you been sitting in my living room?"

Sherlock shrugged. This was the part where he had to lie and be completely perfect with it. "Two hours give or take. I may have gotten into a bit of trouble."

Molly groaned. "Great. Just _great_. What's wrong now?"

Sherlock thought for a moment in silence, staring through the darkness. He could lie again, or he could ask the question that had been nagging at his brain since he left John asleep in his flat. She was a type of doctor and would probably know the answer. He decided to ask the question. "Molly. What are the umm… requirements…? Technicalities…? Signs…?" Sherlock sighed, unable to find the right word to ask his question. "What are… how… how do I know if I've just-"

Molly pushed herself away from the door, taking a few steps forward and crossing her arms. "What are you trying to say Sherlock?" She sounded worried, a little scared.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop to his feet slowly, guilt taking its place. "I don't want any questions or weird comments okay? I just need to know what… _qualifies_ … as rape."

Molly froze, the very air in the room feeling a few degrees colder. She slowly took a few steps forward towards the chair, the seconds it took feeling like hours. "What happened to you?"

Sherlock groaned, letting his forehead drop to his knees and covered his head with his hands. "I'm sorry. This sounds really bad and I know what you're probably thinking, but we were both really dr-"

Sherlock froze when light hit him and Molly gasped. She had pulled the cord to the lamp on the ceiling, illuminating the whole room with a bright light. Looking up silently and pleading with his eyes so she wouldn't be angry, he met her gaze and she slowly reached out to touch his cheek, her fingers lightly tipping his head to the side before delicately sliding over his jaw and pulse point where a few dark bruises were forming. She bit her lip lightly, unbuttoning the top of his shirt collar and pulling it back gently to reveal the indented marks of teeth and red patches surrounding even more purple bruising. She sucked in a deep breath and Sherlock closed his eyes in preparation for the slap he was sure to get, flinching away when she removed her hand from his neck. "Oh, god. Do you know who did it? Did you see their face?"

Sherlock winced. "Of course I know who did it."

Molly nodded silently. "Okay. We'll call Greg Lestrade and get him to send someone down here that knows how to deal with this sort of thing."

Sherlock turned white, the heat draining from his face and tears picking at his eyes. He thought Molly would be able to help, but apparently now he was going to get arrested. It turned out that he really had fucked up past the point of apologies this time. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do it. I was drunk. It was an accident!"

Molly dropped to her knees in front of him, gently resting her hands against his shoulders. "Hey, it's okay. What are you apologizing for? You have done nothing wrong."

"I can't go to jail Molly! Please don't call him! Please!" Sherlock covered his head with his arms, pressing down just a bit too hard and pulling at his hair. All he could do was draw himself in closer, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"What do you mean? Sherlock, you aren't going to go to jail, we need to find the person who… oh… oh god." Molly let her hands fall away from Sherlock's shoulders slowly as she stood back up, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Sometimes I really wish I was stupid as you thought I was when we first met."

Sherlock winced. Why had he ever thought to ask Molly? He probably just lost the only friend he would have left. What had he done? Why was he so stupid? "I didn't mean to. I was drunk."

She just shook her head slowly, taking a few deep breaths and stepping away to fall onto the couch heavily. "So, you came to me. You came to me in the middle of the night because you had gotten into trouble for ra- _taking_ _advantage_ of someone." She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples and rubbing lightly. "I think you better tell me what happened. And no sugar coating."

Sherlock nodded softly, not moving his arms away from his head, but he pulled at his hair less. "We got drunk. Very, very drunk. It was… after the stag night with John. There was this… woman."

"I know you're gay. Don't lie to me."

"Okay, it was a man." Apparently he wasn't as good at keeping secrets as he had hoped. "Well, we talked for a bit as friends and he… trusted me. I swear, we were just supposed to stay that way, I didn't mean to kiss him, it just happened. We were both drunk out of our minds and I was just a little bit depressed and we were getting along so well that I ended up ruining everything. We ended up… having, um… you know…"

Molly sighed. "Sex. You ended up having sex. What's wrong with that? Everyone has drunk sex at one point. It isn't rape."

"He never consented."

"Okay?"

"And he's straight."

" _Oh_."

"And married. To a woman."

" _OH_."

"She's also pregnant."

"Dear lord, Sherlock what have you done?" Molly covered her face, groaning and looking rather ridiculous in her fuzzy pink robe and bulbasaur slippers. "You can't just go around having sex with everyone's drunk husband!"

"It was not 'everyone's drunk husband' if it was just one man!" Sherlock slumped down in his seat with guilt weighing him down. "He was too drunk anyway. He won't remember any of it."

Molly groaned. "That's even worse Sherlock. You can't just do that."

"What else was I supposed to do? Stay there until he woke up and I tell him 'hey I fucking raped you so let's go file a police report together'? Somehow, at the time, I didn't think going to prison as a sex offender would be all that fun." Sherlock sighed, blinking away the frustrated tears threatening to spill over onto his cheeks.

Molly sighed lightly, rubbing her hands over her arms. "Listen, Sherlock, you're my friend and I care for you so I promise I won't tell anyone, but you should go talk to him. That's all the advice I can give you. Especially when he has his own child to think about."

"He doesn't know yet about the pregnancy. I only found out myself a few days ago." Sherlock fiddled with his hair a bit, still covering his head with his arms, and looked over to Molly pitifully. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to face him again. I'm scared Molly."

She shook her head lightly, obviously having a hard time processing the information. "I don't know what to tell you. He's just a man you barely know and- you said he didn't know about the pregnancy? How did you find out?"

He shrugged, swallowing dryly before turning away from her and hiding under his arms. "Common signs. Increased appetite, change in taste perception, morning sickness."

"I know that Sherlock, but how do you know his wife?" Molly frowned at him softly.

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "I… I don't know?"

Molly sighed, rubbing her temples. "Uhhhg. Sherlock, I don't want to be a part of this. Or at least, I don't want to know about your sex life despite the fact that you're my friend." She sighed, slumping in her seat and rubbing her eyes. "Alright, we deal with this thing later. Get some time to think and all that. Just go to sleep and we can talk about this sometime else if you still need to." 

Sherlock nodded. "Alright. I will take my leave. Thank you for the hospitality." He stood up from the chair, turning to Molly and giving her a quick hug. "If Mycroft comes to talk to you, as he will, please tell him that I have taken a case in America. That is what I came to say in the first place." Taking a deep breath, he walked over to the door, turning back to Molly once and smiling softly. "Goodbye Molly, and thank you." 

When he walked a decent way from Molly's flat, Sherlock called for a cab and rode in silence the whole way to the bar he had left mere hours earlier. He slipped inside, sitting down on one of the stools and waiting there for the ten minutes it took for Lucky to appear next to him wordlessly.

"Shezza? You ready to go?" She looked at him expectantly, letting a hand fall onto his shoulder.

Sherlock nodded, letting her take him by the elbow back out of the bar and through the night to slide into the back of a cab. He watched the passing scenery as they drove past buildings and trees and parks, arriving on the other side of the city. When the vehicle stopped, Lucky stepped out quickly and pulled the large suitcase Sherlock hadn't noticed from the back seat, tugging it around the car and knocking on his door to get his attention. 

Lucky bent over a bit to peek through the window, tapping on the glass as he zoned out. "Oi. Schezza. Holmes. Sherlock. William Holmes!" Sherlock jumped a bit, looking up at her before quickly exiting the cab to let it drive away. She smiled a little, handing the suitcase over to him to march up the steps of the small white house sporting a rainbow covered door. "Home sweet home. Ain't it?"

Sherlock nodded a bit, looking around at the grassy yard surrounded by a fence. "I guess you could call it that. Much different from when we were the ones sharing a bunk and Sam ran the place. As strange as it is for me to say, I'll miss them."

Lucky nodded solemnly, fishing out her keys to the door and searching through the unnecessary amount of extras she kept on her ring. "Brain cancer is a real bitch. Sam was the best."

He smiled, about to open his mouth when the door swung open forcefully to reveal a tall woman with a messy ponytail down her back and a square jaw. "Where have you been? It has been over half of the night you have been gone for and the children have school tomorrow!" She frowned at Lucky who stood there smiling all sappy, her blush at the thick Russian accent an obvious sign of how smitten she was.

After a few moments, Lucky snapped back to attention and grinned widely. "I know you're probably mad right now, but it will totally be worth it when you see who I have found." She quickly pulled Sherlock in front of her as a shield, grinning like the half-Irish mad woman she was.

Sherlock looked up at the woman in the doorway with a small grin. "Hello Andi. How's womanhood working out for you?"

Andi's eyes lit up as she smiled, quickly wrapping her arms around Sherlock's torso in a strong embrace. "Locksie! I never expected you to come back here. I was so worried about you." She suddenly scowled a bit, flicking him lightly on the forehead. "That's for making us all worry about your death." She flicked him again in the same spot. "And that's for not coming to us when you got back to London." She slapped him against the cheek firmly, but not painfully. "That's for making us dress up five different sobbing children in black to go to your funeral halfway across the damn city." She hugged him again, placing a kiss onto his head. "That's for coming back home."

Sherlock smiled softly, hugging Andi lightly and stepping inside when she offered. "Thank you Andi. I promise not to be too much trouble for you two to handle." He smiled, looking past her and trying to see past the sitting room and down the hall to where the bunk rooms were held. "Hey, is Fontaine awake?"

She smiled, ushering him through the door with his suitcase and grabbing Lucky's hand softly. "Not right now, but he would kill me if I didn't wake him up to see you." Sherlock grinned, looking outside one last time at the sign hanging on the fence before closing the door and walking quickly after the couple. 

_Sam Turing-Hart's Home For The Wandering_

_Safe place for children, teenagers, young adults, and all others._

_Embracing the LGBT colors since WWII_

  
  


Sherlock had lived in the house for five and a half years when he first left home a few days before seventeen. He had just separated himself from his parents and brother after a particularly nasty argument about his drug usage, and having nowhere else to go, he decided to stay for some time. It had been in this very house where he met Sam, the forty three year old genderfluid parental figure that had walked him through realizing he liked men and the horrible withdrawal from cocaine that he undertook to stay. Drugs weren't allowed around the children and teenagers that came and went every few weeks, so he quit to keep his new home found with all temporary residents of Turing-Hart's, Sam, Lucky, and Andrew who transitioned later to Andi. Sherlock lived out of the House for years, bringing in teens he found while looking for work and children he found abandoned on the streets. At eighteen, he had brought in his favorite resident of Turing-Hart's when they were only three years old, immediately claiming the child as his own without anyone knowing. The toddler had his curls, though blonde, and his curiosity of the world, but the real reason was this child's eyes. They were the exact colors of his very own. It thrilled Sherlock to no extent that he would have the opportunity to be a good father to a child exactly like him, but after signing the adoption papers for little Noah Fontaine Timothy Holmes and having three years with his son, Sam got brain cancer. It had been completely unexpected and devastating, but Sherlock had never meant to fall back on old habits that forced him out of Turing-Hart's. Sherlock was left the House in Sam's will, but Lucky had to take over when he overdosed not even a week after Sam's funeral. The worst part though was losing Fontaine, his little boy. It was a hard hit that caused him to spiral uncontrollably into depression, picking up crime solving and forcing him to include Mycroft back into his life so he didn't die needlessly. After almost four years of sending his baby presents and letters and stories of his cases whenever he could without being allowed to see him, Sherlock overdosed again and Mycroft forced him into rehab. The two of them made a deal and after three long, awful months of staying clean, he was let out and could visit his baby boy. It was directly after that short visit when he first met John and his life finally picked back up again. He finally felt as if he had found home after years of searching.

  
  


* * *

The peony has become a major cultural tradition in some countries, while most people consider it unlucky or a sign of **_shame_** _._

Queen Anne's Lace symbolizes a **_haven or sanctuary_ **. It signifies complexity and delicateness.

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**A Gun Made Of Creeping Willow**

  
  


John was pacing back and forth, having accidentally crumpled the note clutched in his hand long ago. He was working a hole into the floor, his nice dress shoes making a dull thump against the wooden boards as he waited, breathing heavily in a small panic. "Come on. Come on. Where are you?"

"John?" He whipped around to face Mary as she opened the door to the room he was standing in. "Are you okay?"

John nodded, forcing a smile. "Of course! You shouldn't be here though. It's bad luck."

Mary laughed, patting the lace on her white dress. "I'm sure that it's fine just this once if we break the rules a bit." She looked around at the empty room, face immediately falling. "He isn't here? I thought he agreed to be the best man."

John shrugged, a fake smile plastered to his face. "Well he did have a case… said he didn't know how long it would take. I guess he's just caught up in the thrill of things again."

Mary frowned. "It's been five days though. Had he ever been gone on a case this long?"

John shook his head. "No. He's usually back by now. I'm sure he'll show up though. He… he promised." He bit his lip, shifting a little on his feet and looking to the floor. "He promised me."

Mary frowned, coming into the room and placing her hand on his arm gently. "I'm sure he's alright. I bet it's just traffic."

John nodded a bit. "Yeah. Just traffic." His eyes filled with tears and he quickly wiped them away. "What if he's gone? Mary, what if he's stuck somewhere? What if he's dead? Did he run away? Why would he do that?"

Mary patted his hand softly, smiling in pity. "Now why would you think that?"

John bit his lip. "Well, he is-"

"John." Mary frowned at him disapprovingly. "Being autistic doesn't automatically make him less capable than a child." She sighed, shaking her head slowly. "Have you asked him about it yet? Why he hid it from you?"

John looked at the ground, ashamed. He should know better than to assume things just because he had been lied to for years and was _very_ angry about it. "No. I haven't been able to find the right time."

"John…"

"Yes. I know. I know."

"You have to talk to him about it."

"I already know that. I just don't know how."

"John. Just ask him. If you don't do it soon, you might never build up the courage."

John sighed, looking down at the note sadly. "I don't think he's going to come. You heard what he said. Weddings aren't really his area."

Mary gently embraced him, letting his head fall onto her shoulder. "It's not your fault John. He's just-"

They both went silent as John's phone started ringing from across the room.

John looked over at Mary, worried. "Could that be…?"

"Go answer it."

John walked across the room, pressing the answer button and holding it up to his ear. "Hello?"

"John! Great. Do you have two extra seats and a baby chair?"

"Sherlock?" John's gaze flickered over towards Mary hopefully.

"Yes. There have been some last minute complications, so I am running quite a bit late. I can't just-"

"Where's Mommy?" Sherlock was cut off in the middle of his sentence when a small child spoke. 

John felt his stomach drop through his feet, face draining of all color as he listened to the shuffling of Sherlock trying to cover the phone speaker. "Mommy's at work right now. You have to be quiet, I'm on the phone."

"I want Mommy."

"Well, Mommy isn't here right now."

"Can we see Mommy later?"

"Of course Sammy. We can go see Mommy right after we're done."

"Okay."

Sherlock uncovered the speaker that was only slightly muffled the whole time. "Sorry about that. I just need to know if there are two extra seats, one with a toddler seat thing and just one normal one."

John nodded, somehow feeling as if he was trying to breathe through water. "Yeah. Yeah, we have that. Where should we put them?"

Sherlock sighed in relief. "If you could put them somewhere near Molly or Mrs. Hudson it would be great. Thank you John. I have to go. I'll see you in a bit, I'm pulling in right now."

John took the phone away from his ear, Sherlock hanging up before he could say goodbye. He just stood there in shock, staring at his phone blankly for a few moments.

"John? Was that him?" Mary looked at his shocked expression strangely. 

John nodded. "Yeah. It was." He paused for a moment. "We need two more seats next to Mrs. Hudson, one with a toddler seat on it."

Mary nodded. "Okay. You go handle Sherlock and whoever he's bringing."

John nodded, watching her slide out of the room with her white dress trailing behind her before quickly making his way to the front doors where Sherlock would arrive. John refused to admit to anyone that he passed that he was running down the halls. Stopping right before turning the corner, he peeked out to see Sherlock walk through the front door, holding it for a toddler and teenager to pass through before letting it shut.

John smiled a little, observing as Sherlock had to grab the toddler around the waist and pick him up off the floor to grab a flower out of his mouth. "Stop that. We don't eat random plants unless it's for science."

"It's an expir-ma-ment." He pouted, squirming from Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock put him down, crouching down to his level. "We don't do experiments at weddings. I'll let you taste them later when I make sure they aren't poisonous."

The teenage boy leaned forward, looking at the flower the toddler had tried to eat. "It's a lilac. Botanical name Syringa. They are nontoxic to humans and according to my research, they taste horrible."

Sherlock sighed. "Your research was just sticking one in your mouth, wasn't it? When did you decide to eat a flower?"

The teenager shrugged. "When I was seven or eight."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock flung his arm over the teen's shoulders. "No more eating random flowers. After we get Sammy back to Andi, I'll take you back to my flat and we can test some of them. Maybe we could grab some samples on the way out."

John chuckled, walking towards them politely. "I would prefer you refrain from eating the flowers outside. I don't think the people that own this place would like their bushes eaten."

Sherlock looked up at John, quickly moving forward and offering his hand to shake. "John." He turned to the two kids, pointing first at the toddler then the teenager. "This is Samuel and Fontaine. I had to bring them with me." John couldn't help but notice Sherlock's fond look towards both of them, standing a little straighter with pride.

Fontaine shrugged. "Lucky's at work and Andi sprained her ankle stepping on a toy so she needed help watching Sammy." He smiled up at Sherlock in obvious admiration, stars in his eyes. "I was coming anyway because I finally get to go home when this is over."

John nodded, eyeing the toddler nervously. The boy had dark brown curls exactly like Sherlock's and a caramel complexion. He was three years at most, strangely articulate for someone his age despite the one mess up from earlier, so he was smart. No, he was clever. Sammy smiled at John and he felt obligated to give the boy a small wave before turning back to Sherlock. "You should go get them situated. We head out in ten minutes."

Sherlock nodded silently, passing John without so much as a glance in his direction, too busy grinning at Fontaine. The teenager on the other hand was stunned when he saw John's face, tugging at the arm around his shoulders. "Oh my god. That was Doctor Watson. _Doctor. John. Bleeding. Watson_." John looked over his shoulder to watch his friend walk into the church, pulling the two kids over to Mrs. Hudson and talking with her quickly, pleased at the reaction. Fontaine recognized her, probably from Sherlock's funeral, giving the small lady a hug as she brushed the teen's blonde hair away from his bright blue-green eyes. Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a blinding smile, clapping Fontaine's shoulder and telling her something that made her jump in surprise and tear up, embracing him with pride and fussing over Fontaine while wiping away happy tears. He just looked prouder than ever, wrapping the three of them in a tight hug before slipping away and joining John at the entrance of the church, only to dodge past him and walk swiftly to the room John had just left. For the first time since Sherlock arrived, John noticed that the tall, lanky man was wearing jeans and a jumper, something he usually wouldn't be caught dead in, but he looked strangely more relaxed and happy than John had ever seen him. It was strange, something must have changed since the stag night. 

Sherlock walked into the room quickly, trying to close the door before John could get in, but he slipped in right before the door slammed shut. John noticed that the second they were shut in the room together, Sherlock became stiff, tensing up and shuffling a few inches away. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, standing a bit straighter. "I have to change."

John chuckled briefly, shaking his head. "Sherlock, just last month I caught you in your pants dancing in the kitchen to Mozart with a biscuit in your mouth and looking at a biology test filled out in bright pink glitter pen. There's nothing I haven't seen. Besides, if I have to go out there so do you."

Sherlock turned slightly red, moving to the other side of the room to grab the suit hanging up. "Fine. Just… don't look."

John shrugged, sitting down on one of the chairs provided and turning away from Sherlock to give him a little privacy. "Sooo… do you have a wife?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No."

John bit his lip. "So, girlfriend or fiance?"

"I've already told you. No."

"So, a husband, boyfriend?"

"Not at the moment. No."

"Then, did you adopt Sammy?"

"Sammy isn't my kid."

John perked up a bit, relief flooding his chest. "Alright. Why does he look so much like you though?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"I was in a brief relationship with Sammy's mother back when she was Andrew instead of Andi. I volunteered to be a donor for her and her wife after her surgery went successfully and they still weren't pregnant."

John spun around to look at Sherlock in surprise. "You were a donor? When was that?"

Sherlock shrugged, his back facing John as he buttoned his dress shirt, standing in his underwear. "It has been three years three months three days. Exactly." 

John would have said an inappropriate joke about how it should have been six six six with Sherlock, but his eyes were drawn downward to the top of Sherlock's legs. There were silver scars on the back of his thighs, each one covered in faint yellowed bruises. "What's that?"

Sherlock turned a bit to look at John. "I said three years- JOHN!" He quickly pulled his jumper off the floor, covering his legs quickly, glaring a bit. "I said not to look!"

John frowned. "You were hurt. Where did you get those scars?"

Sherlock glared. "Serbia."

"When?"

"About a day before I… came back." Sherlock sighed, turning back around, tying the jumper around his waist to block John's view. "Now if you don't mind, would you look away?"

John frowned. "But just last month…"

Sherlock sighed. "I look perfectly fine from the front. Nobody knows about them except for Mary. And Mycroft. And Molly. And Lucky. An-"

"Okay. I get it. Everyone but me." John sighed, turning away again.

Sherlock shrugged. "I would have thought Mary told you."

John laughed. "Yeah, that's not going to happen again. Last time she told me something she thought I knew, I had a bit of a break down for a few days."

Sherlock glanced over at John curiously. "When was that?"

John stiffened. Why had he brought this up? Well, he had to confront it as some time, why not right before his wedding while his best man was standing next to him half naked? "Well, when you… came back, Mary figured something out that surprised me a little."

Sherlock groaned. "Shit."

John looked up at him sadly. "So it's true then? You've actually got… you're…"

Sherlock sighed. "Autistic. You can say it John. I- I'm sorry."

John chuckled. "You don't have to be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for."

"But I'm n-"

John cut him off. "Hey. Who in their right mind would ever want something 'normal' when they could get you? I certainly wouldn't."

Sherlock snickered as he buttoned his pants, his shirt already tucked in. "You beautiful idiot."

John grinned, walking over to Sherlock and helping him into his vest, buttoning it up in front. "I swear that it's your fault I'm like this. You're too good of a person to make people believe you are horrible." Sherlock just shrugged and John grabbed his friend's suit jacket, helping him into it and pulling a cream colored tie over his curls. "Why don't you tell people? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock shrugged again, pulling at his sleeves nervously in a way that John felt was rather strange, but left it alone to fix the tie. "Well, whenever I tell people, they treat me as if I don't know what I'm doing. I would rather be treated as an asshole with no emotions than a child unable to be trusted with a pair of scissors. And… I didn't want you to know because you were the only one who never believed that I was a fr-" Sherlock's mouth froze up a bit, unable to properly form the word he was trying to say. 

John smoothed down the front of Sherlock's jacket with a satisfied grin. "Well, looks like it's time for us to go out now."

Sherlock's cheeks went pink, but he grabbed John's arm gently before plucking a flower from the vase next to him to tuck it behind John's ear. "I think Mary will like it."

John nodded, a heavy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach when he looked at the pain hidden in Sherlock's eyes. He turned away to escape from the look, but turning away made his chest hurt. Ignoring it, John walked over to the door, opening it and letting Sherlock pass through before following close behind, cheeks burning from guilt. 

Sherlock turned back to look into John's dark blue eyes, his own filled with pain, regret, guilt, jealousy, and the overwhelming sense of humble sacrifice. But more than anything, he was happy. He was happy because John had found someone better to love. "It's time for you to become her husband, just as it always will be from now on."

John nodded, still hooked on the look he couldn't quite put his finger on that Sherlock had in his eyes. "I guess it is. What could go wrong at this point?"

The answer to that question was _everything_.

Everyone expected the day to be perfect, and it was. The ceremony was perfect. The pictures were beautiful. Nothing was spilt. No toddlers were poisoned from eating flowers. Nothing ripped. Nobody tripped. There were no broken high heels. No popping buttons. No falling candles. No breaking glass. No seat confusion. Mary was radiant. John couldn't see how anything could possibly go wrong.

But then again, nobody was prepared for the speech that Sherlock gave that drove his audience to tears.

_"I am afraid, John, that I can not congratulate you. All emotions, in particular… love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason that dwells in the heart of a sociopath. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental. Love is nothing more than a chemical defect of the brain. Nothing more than a weakness for others to exploit."_

_The guests began to look uncomfortable as some of them murmured quietly to each other while Greg and Molly looked at Sherlock in horror._

_Sherlock continued without taking note of displeasure. "Today we honor the glitch of a brain we call love. A dangerous and honestly terrifying idea that is most likely the doom of our society and, in time - as I feel certain - our entire species. But as I said, that is what I believe. And as John has proven to me time and time again, I am often… wrong."_

_The guests stared at him in silent shock while Sherlock paused for a moment._

_"But anyway… John. If I burdened myself with a little help-mate during my cases that he still strives to call adventures, it is not out of sentiment. It is that he has many fine qualities of his own that have been overlooked in the obsession with me, even by himself. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast of selflessness that John provides."_

_John sighed heavily, looking over at Mary who was frowning deeply. He was begging himself to control his actions because Sherlock was speaking about things that he could barely understand. He just had to wait a few more minutes of not strangling him._

_Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing. "It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel. Contrast exists to enhance the beauty of God's divine creations. To make the red paint stand out on white paper. Or the orange of a carrot to stand out against the face of a snowman. Or maybe to cast the pain in stone with the sight of blood on gray cement or bright yellow flowers resting against a black grave. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot and excuse for all of the wretched things in the world. If there was ever a god, he would not deserve to be worshiped for the destruction of his creations that only wish to be happy."_

_Mary hid behind her hands as John ran his hands through his hair to keep them away from Sherlock's neck. The vicar looked at Sherlock grimly, as more guests muttered amongst themselves angrily._

_Sherlock paused for a moment, looking down at the table solemnly, his voice dropping to a soft tone. "The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy." He took a deep breath, tears gathering in his eyes, nobody noticing except for John. "I have been called a phycopath, madman, drama queen, virgin, baby, and f-f-freak, so if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. The one man that never believed it when people told him I was insane. The one man who never thought it was necessary for me to be anyone other than who I already was. The one man who never accepted that I really am just a conceited ass and have no good traits about me. So I just wanted to say that, John, I am a ridiculous man redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I’m apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion, but I can accept and embrace it fully because she makes you happier than I ever could."_

_Sherlock looked down for a moment, then smiled a little at Mary as sniffles were heard from the crowd. There were shaky breaths and light sobs, all blurred out to John because all he could focus on was the look in Sherlock's eyes. The painful acceptance drowning in tears._

_Sherlock smiled through the pain, honest and pure love on his face as he looked at Mary. The feelings he had for her were platonic, but it was love all the same, even if it was born from the pain of giving up. "Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest and most meaningful compliment of which I am capable." Sherlock shifted his gaze to John who was frozen in place, staring intently and hoping to god that he wouldn't break down crying. "John, you have endured war, injury, and tragic loss, so know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved from the brink of death on so many occasions, each one he would be willing to admit to hundreds if not thousands of times." Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat, breathing deeply a few times as not to get choked up. "It has always been you, John Watson. You keep me right, and I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."_

_John covered his mouth with his fingertips, breathing heavily and looking to the tablecloth, realization hitting him like a bus._

_Sherlock looked over the crowd, eyes widening at the sight of everyone crying. "What's wrong? What happened? Why are you all crying? What did I do wrong?" He looked to his right to see John also crying. "John? What did I do wrong?"_

_John stood up quickly, embracing Sherlock tightly and pushing his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong."_

_Sherlock bit his lip, tears finally escaping down his cheeks. "But I ruined it. I always ruin it. I'm so sorry."_

_John shook his head, voice catching. "No, no. You didn't do anything wrong. Nothing was ruined. You were brilliant."_

_Sherlock buried his head into John's hair shaking as John just held him, knowing that he shouldn't be doing it, but doing it anyway because he made a mistake. He had chosen wrong. John just stood there until the shaking stopped, holding onto the man he loved at his own wedding. He had made a giant mistake._

Then, everything that could possibly go wrong happened.

Nobody had accounted for the speech.

Nobody thought that it would be distracting.

Nobody thought that there was any danger.

Nobody thought that there would be a person to take advantage of the moment.

Nobody understood just how wrong they were.

Not until the camera man pulled out two guns.

Bang.

Someone lost their son.

And started shooting. Toppling bodies. Soaking table cloths in blood. Causing the screams.

Bang.

David, Mary's ex boyfriend.

Sending John running to tackle him. Causing Sherlock to sprint after him into the running crowd immediately.

Bang.

Mr. Chatterjee, the shop keeper.

Greg didn't have a gun. John didn't have a gun. Sherlock didn't have a gun. Nobody had anything.

Bang. Bang.

A man and his wife.

There were running bodies. Falling tables. Spilling candles. Burning flowers. Sherlock was panicking, searching.

Bang.

Archie, the kid of the couple just killed.

Sherlock ran towards the kids he had brought with him, screaming.

"NOAH! NOAH FONTAINE! SAMUEL!"

He ran towards the voice screaming for him. "Dad! Dad!"

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Mary's bridesmaid. One of the caterers. A young man wearing blue.

Burning fabric. Burning room. Desperate John. Screaming Mary.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Another man. Colin, the man Molly brought. Another caterer. Someone's mother.

Sherlock was begging himself to push through the running bodies faster, he had to find the voice. He had to find the screaming boy. He had to find his son.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The vicar. A child. An old woman.

The camera man aimed at his real target, pointing and pulling the trigger with fury.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Major Sholto.

John was screaming. He was running at the camera man, angry tears pouring from his eyes.

He was taking aim again.

There was a boy screaming.

Sherlock was screaming.

Pull the trigger.

Bang **.**

**_Fontaine_ ** **.**

John was slammed to the side, falling to the ground in shock.

Blood splattered the floor.

Sherlock froze, looking at who had thrown themselves in front of John.

Time stopped. Greg body slammed the cameraman to the floor and Sherlock fell to his knees in a daze, slowly crawling over to the bleeding boy. "Fontaine?"

Fontaine's eyes fluttered a bit as he stared up at Sherlock in fear. He was gasping, tears in his eyes, and he coughed wetly and blood leaked from his mouth. "Dad. Please."

Sherlock was numb, not noticing as silence fell around him, Mary coming up behind him and John rigid in absolute horror, staring at the boy. Sherlock gingerly pulled his bleeding son onto his lap, tears welling up in his eyes. "Why. Why did you do it. Why are you leaving me? You don't deserve to die."

Fontaine was breathing heavily, sobbing. "I had to. I didn't kn-know what else to d-do." His lip trembled as his hands clawed at Sherlock's suit desperately. Sherlock pressed a hand firmly to Fontaine's stomach where blood was leaking out, his eyes wide as tears splashed onto his hand. "Please. Dad. I don't wan- I don't wanna die. Please. Please."

Sherlock hugged Fontaine tightly, kissing his forehead and cradling his face. "You're my son. I would never let you go." He pressed their foreheads together before Fontaine's head fell back, eyes closing as he passed out from the pain. He took a deep, shaky breath, looking over at John who was still frozen. "Help him."

John snapped to attention, tearing off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. "Back up." Sherlock set his child down, backing away a bit to give John room. "Mary. I need a nurse." Mary quickly knelt down in her white dress, staining the area around the knees with blood.

Sherlock took a few steps away, tears streaming down his face, people coming back into the reception hall. Greg was looking over John's shoulder in fear, so Sherlock took the opportunity, his wave of emotions quickly turning to fury directed at the bastard who shot his son. Looking over where Greg had left the camera man, Sherlock realized that he was gone. Grabbing a butter knife off the ground, he left the scene where people were cluttering around, trusting John to save his kid's life without question.

Sherlock stormed from the building, eyes shooting to every possible place as he absorbed every single piece of information flying his way, looking for clues. There were footprints in the dirt that led away from the building, the length of the strides suggesting that the person was running. Clenching his fist around the knife, he ran, lungs burning and legs aching. Sherlock followed the prints until he reached grass and could see the bastard running full tilt away from the scene of the murders he had committed. Without a second thought, he threw himself onto the back of the murderer, screaming.

"Get off! You cock!" The camera man punched him across the face, but Sherlock ignored each blow.

Instead, he brought down the knife ruthlessly into the man's shoulder, causing him to scream louder every time Sherlock brought the knife down. 

"YOU." Shoulder.

"HURT." Left lung.

Bang.

"MY." Right collarbone.

"SON." Through his cheek.

Bang.

"YOU." Nose.

"BLOODY." Cheekbone.

"FUCKING." Neck.

"BASTARD!" Eye.

Anger.

Movement.

Pain.

The only thing Sherlock saw was red as more blood poured from the face of the murderer that screamed. Sherlock made sure none of his stabs were lethal, he wanted the monster to suffer as much as possible. He was screaming, crying, stabbing, feeling blood flick onto his face and soak his hands, his tears smearing the red down his cheeks. His chest throbbed in pain, but it didn't stop him from carving out that man's vocal chords, finally just screaming and stabbing at the bastard's head blindly long after it stopped screaming and went limp.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Sherlock dropped the knife, looking down at a mess of blood and bone chips, completely numb. He sat still as pain caught up to him because of the fading adrenaline, limply falling over off the mangled corpse.

He was vaguely aware that there were holes in his body from a gun, but his vision went fuzzy as arms held him, pressing down hard on his chest and dozens of hands carrying him in silence.

He was carried somewhere where many people were sobbing. And he was laid down onto the floor where someone put pressure on two holes in his chest and stomach.

There was pain everywhere. His whole body hurt, listening to the sirens in the distance. There was a voice speaking right behind him.

"Nobody will say anything." John?

"I don't think anyone would want to. He just did what all of us were silently wishing would happen." Gregory.

Sherlock let his head fall back. Waiting.

Holding a rough, callused hand.

Sweet little whispers in his ear.

_"Don't you worry."_

Hot tears.

_"You'll be okay Love."_

Blurry face above him.

_"Everything will be fine."_

Bright lights.

_"You're going to be fine."_

A blonde angel holding him.

_"Keep your eyes open for me. Just keep on looking at me. Don't go to sleep."_

Sirens.

_"Just hold on."_

People.

_"Don't try to move."_

Noises.

_"You will be fine."_

Lifting.

_"Don't close your eyes."_

Rolling outside under the sky.

_"No, no, no. Don't close your eyes. Please."_

Too much pain.

_"Sherlock! Stay awake! Don't close your eyes! Don't go! Keep your eyes open! Please!"_

His eyes close reluctantly, shutting heavy with exhaustion.

  
  


* * *

Creeping Willow is a sign of **_love forsaken._ **

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**Broken Friendship Built On Sweet Briar**

  
  


John woke up to the sound of loud knocking, sitting up in his bed bleary and half asleep. He threw back the covers, pulling a dressing gown over his night clothes, and went to the front door where someone was still knocking. He opened the door to see a woman standing there looking back at him, her eyes rimmed with red.

She looked up at him pitifully, sniffing and dabbing her eyes with a kerchief. "I know it’s early. Really, I’m sorry, but I need help."

John stared at the woman blankly as Mary came into the room, pulling a dressing gown on. "Is that Kate?"

John snapped back into reality to look at the woman in front of him. "Oh. Um, yeah, it’s Kate."

Looked at him strangely. "Invite her in maybe?

"Oh. Yes, sorry, yes." He smiled a little. "Do you wanna come in, Kate?" He stepped aside to let Kate walk down the hall towards Mary, still snuffling.

Mary embraced her sympathetically, leading her to the living room to sit. A few minutes later, Mary and Kate were sitting on the sofa where Mary stroked Kate’s arm. "It’s all right."

Kate looked up to John. "It’s Isaac."

John nodded, still asleep a bit. "Ah, yes. Your husband."

Mary cleared her throat. "Son."

John nodded again, yawning. "Son, yeah."

Kate sighed. "He’s gone missing again. Didn’t come home last night."

John frowned a bit. "He’s the drugs one, yeah?"

Mary glared at him. "Could have put it better."

John shrugged. "Look, is it Sherlock Holmes you want? Because I haven't seen him in ages."

Mary sighed. "Almost two months now." She gave him a funny look that screamed disappointment. "You haven't visited since you stopped guarding his bedside in the hospital. Sometimes I have to wonder why."

John flinched, fingernails digging into the arms of his chair. "He was shot twice. Both to the torso. Collapsed lung. Internal bleeding. He doesn't need the stress of more unwanted visitors." It wasn't true. The reason John hadn't seen Sherlock since the hospital was because he didn't know what he would do. All he knew was that if he saw Sherlock, there would be nothing to do but kiss him, and to John, it was a terrifying realization. Unless it was all fake and the gunshots were like the rooftop, then John would probably hit the bloody bastard so hard his brains flew out. He was done with being lied to. He couldn't stand it anymore. Everything in his head since the wedding was swimming with thoughts of Sherlock Holmes and nothing made sense anymore when it came to him.

Mary frowned at him, gently patting Kate's hand. "He would never object to seeing you and you know that. He met with me three weeks ago and all he could talk about was you." She rubbed Kate's arm reassuringly before dropping her glare.

Kate looked between them questioning. "Who’s Sherlock Holmes? What's he doing to get himself shot?"

Mary smiled sadly at her. "Sherlock Holmes is a detective and he was attending a wedding where there was a murderer. He has bad luck when it comes to weddings, they never do go well for him."

Kate teared up a bit, dabbing her eyes again. "Oh dear! Poor soul. I hope he doesn't get shot at his own wedding!"

Letting a small glance flicker to her husband, Mary hugged Kate softly. "Oh, it's completely fine. He doesn't like relationships. Sherlock doesn't want to risk putting anyone in danger like that." Mary paused to watch John who wasn't paying attention, to busy thinking about the person they were discussing. Would Sherlock ever be able to think about having a… relationship with someone who was used to all the danger? "Well, why don't you tell us more about Isaac." John snapped back to the conversion at the sound of Mary's voice, paying more attention.

Kate sniffed, sobbing lightly. "There’s this place they all go to, him and his friends. They all do whatever they do… shoot up, whatever you call it."

John sighed, tapping nervously at the arm of his chair. "Where is he? What's the address?"

Shortly afterwards, John was dressed and sitting in the car with Mary in the passenger seat because she refused to be left behind. They parked on a piece of concrete waste ground outside the address Kate gave them and John exited the car to open the boot and take something out. He walked round to the passenger side and Mary laughed, pointing at what he tucked into the top of his jeans. 

"What is that?!"

"It’s a tyre lever."

"Why?"

"Because there are loads of smackheads in there, and one of them might need help with a tyre. If there’s any trouble, just go. I’ll be fine." John turned and started to walk towards the house, but Mary stopped him.

She rolled down the window quickly. "John? Be careful in there."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know." He then walked across to the front door of the house to bang loudly on the door. "Hello?"

The door opened slowly, a young man wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up over his head looking outside. "What do you want?" John barged his way in, walking down the hall and taking a look around. The man looked outside for a moment, then turned towards John. "Hey! You can’t come in here!"

John looked around some more before turning to the man. "Listen here, I’m looking for a friend. A very specific friend, mind you, I’m not just browsing in a drug house."

The young man shook his head. "You’ve gotta go. No one’s allowed ’ere."

John got up close into the boy's face. "Isaac Whitney. Have you seen him?" 

The young man pulled out a flip knife and stood his ground, glaring. "Go. Or I’ll cut you."

John scoffed. "Yeah, I'd like to see you try. Actually, here, let me help." John glared, grabbing the man's arm when he jumped forward, slamming a fist onto the wrist holding the knife. John elbowed the boy in the diaphragm and kicked out his feet. The young man slumped to the floor and John stepped back, watching him choke and groan in pain. John bent down to pick up the knife that had fallen to the floor. He squatted down beside the boy, pointing the knife at him. "Right, now, are you concentrating yet?"

The boy groaned. "You broke my arm!"

"Wrong. I sprained it."

"It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy?" He held his right arm out to John. "Feel that!"

John poked it halfheartedly, looking around. "Yeah, it’s a sprain. I’m a doctor, so I know how to sprain people." John smiled less than pleasantly. "Now where is Isaac Whitney?"

The boy pressed his lips together stubbornly. "I don't know."

John shrugged. "Well, since I am a doctor, I  _ also _ know how to break a leg. If you would like a little demonstra-"

"Upstairs! He's upstairs!"

John grinned. "There you go. Wasn't that easy?"

The man glared. "You’re mental, you are."

John pocketed the flick-knife as he walked away. "No. Just used to a better class of criminal." He walked up the stairs and into a large room at the top that smelled of bile and piss. Surprisingly, the scent of blood was also worryingly present, the rusty smell invading his nostrils. It smelled almost exactly like a murder scene. Several people were lying or sitting around on mattresses at the edges of the room. All of them looked completely stoned and unaware. Grimacing, John walked slowly across the room, looking around until he spotted someone familiar, kneeling next to them. "Isaac?"

The boy looked up, groaning. "Hrmmm?"

John sighed in relief. "Hello, mate. Can you sit up for me? Sit up." He helped Isaac to sit, lifting one of his eyelids to see that the boy’s eyes were rolling uncontrollably.

Isaac groaned again. "Doctor Watson?"

"Yep."

"Where am I?"

"The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me."

"Have you come for me?"

"Do you think I know a lot of people here?" John grinned when he made Isaac laugh loosely. "Come on. Let's go."

Isaac nodded. "I got a friend. Can I say goodbye so he doesn't worry."

John nodded. At least the kid had someone watching him so he didn't overdose or something. "Yeah. Yeah, that should be alright."

Isaac leaned over to the mattress on his right, touching the shoulder of a man clad in a giant hoodie that drowned his whole frame and sweatpants that came past his bare feet. "Hey. M' going." Isaac shook him a bit. "Hey." He turned to look at John. "He's cold."

"Fuck." John clambered over Isaac's mattress to grab the man, searching through all of the fabric for a face, eventually finding one and slipping two fingers down to his neck. Sighing, John leaned back. There was a steady pulse. Faint, but steady. He should probably be taken to a hospital. Shaking the man, he looked back at Isaac who was looking worried as he could be with swaying vision. "Hey. Come on. Wake up you addict."

The man took a deep breath, letting out a groan. "I'm not an addict."

John froze, then glared, pushing the giant hood away from the dark nest of curls. "Bloody- fuck. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I swear to god. Get your ass up right now or I will call Mycroft and don't think I'm too chicken because I'm not and I also have him on speed dial."

Sherlock groaned again. "Never expected to see you here. Did you come for me, too? Did you plan this?" 

Shortly afterwards, Isaac stumbled out of the building and over to the car where Mary sat in the driver’s seat. "Hello, Isaac."

Isaac looked inside blearily, his eyes worried. "Mrs. Watson, can I… can I get in, please? I couldn't stop 'em. They’re havin' a fight."

Mary frowned. "Who is?"

Back at the house, there was a bang as a door from the first floor landing of the fire escape was thrown to the side. Sherlock stormed out with John close on his heels. "Oh, for god sakes, John! I’m on a case!"

John followed him down the fire escape, glaring furiously. "A month! That’s all it took for you to go back to drugs!" As the sun finally hit Sherlock's face, John could see just how terrible he looked. His eyes and nose were red and puffy against skin much paler than usual, his cheeks sunk, and hair completely tangled and overgrown. He was covered in grime, dirt smudged across his face and clothes, she stench of blood and vomit covering the dark sweater. John could see the visible shaking of Sherlock's hands that threatened to be swallowed up by the big sweater, his fingers twitching every so often.

"I'm not high!" Halfway down, Sherlock vaulted himself over the side of the fire escape and onto a wall beside it, stumbling a bit and solidifying John's assumptions. "I’m working! I'm on a case!" He jumped down onto a wheelie bin beside the wall and then onto another one laying on its side before nearly falling unsteadily to the ground. 

John glared. Every trip or misstep Sherlock took was proof of drugs. "Sherlock Holmes in a drug den! How’s that gonna look?"

"I’m undercover!"

"No you’re not!"

"Well, I’m not now thanks to you!"

"Stop trying to trick me! It won't work!"

Sherlock turned towards him quickly with a glare. "I AM NOT HIGH!"

John scowled, slamming a fist viciously into Sherlock's face so hard that it sent him crashing to the ground. John crouched down, glaring as Sherlock looked away, holding his giant sleeve to his bleeding lip. "Stop. Lying. To. Me." 

Mary drove the car quickly towards them, pulling up alongside with a squeal of brakes. "In. Both of you, quickly." She shot John an angry look then pointedly glared out the windshield, looking at Sherlock who was shaking on the ground.

John got into the passenger seat while Sherlock gingerly picked himself up off the cement, getting into the seat behind him. The young man John hurt hurried over towards the car, cradling his wrist and Mary sighed in exasperation before turning to look at the new arrival. "Please. Can I come? I think I’ve got a broken arm."

Mary sighed. "Fine. Get in. Is there anyone else who wants to tag along? I mean, we’re taking everybody home, are we?"

John grumbled a bit as Sherlock shifted over to give the boy some room. "It's just a sprain."

The man ignored John, getting in and looking around and seeing Sherlock who had pulled his hood back up, arms clutched close to his chest. He frowned, looking at Sherlock's bleeding lip. "All right, Shezza?"

"Shut up Bill."

John scoffed “Shezza?"

Sherlock scowled. "I was undercover."

Mary smiled at him uneasily. "Seriously though, Shezza?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's what Fontaine called me back when he first got to Turing-Hart's. He was barely three and I didn't expect him to call me Sherlock. That would be unrealistic for both the age he was and the speech impediment he had."

Mary sucked in a deep breath. "Oh. I'm so sorry that he-"

"Don't." Sherlock pulled his arms in closer, looking down to his lap. "Don't give pointless apologies when it no longer matters. He's not dead and he isn't going to die. He's going to get better and then he will come home. So say nothing of problems that are not yours unless you are asked. Now be silent and take me home."

John shook his head, taking out his phone. "We’re not going home. We’re going to Bart’s. I’m calling Molly." 

Mary looked over at him, pulling the car away. "Why's that?"

John dialed Molly's number and held his phone to his ear, turning to look over his shoulder at Sherlock before directing the rest of the sentence to Mary. "Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

Sherlock closed his eyes with exasperation as Mary drove them all away. "I'm not high."

John glared at him silently until he decided to look out the window and watch the city pass.

About an hour and a half later, Molly finished her tests on Sherlock’s urine sample. He stood nearby, leaning back against the central bench and looking sulky, arms pulled into his sweater with the hood up. On the other side of the lab Bill sat on a side bench while Mary wrapped a bandage around his wrist. Isaac just sat silently nearby. 

Molly took off her gloves with two loud snaps and John jumped. "Well? Is he clean?" 

Throwing her gloves down, Molly turns to John, nodding silently. "Completely. He's just severely dehydrated and malnourished."

John frowned, shaking his head. "Test again. It's not possible. Look at how red his eyes are."

Molly shook her head. "I tested twice. He's clean."

Isaac let out a small chuckle. "I coulda told you that. Schezza jus bleed'n'lot."

John looked over to Isaac, confused. "What?"

Isaac was about to repeat himself when Sherlock shot him a furious glare and he shut up. "He said nothing."

Molly looked down to the ground silently. "Could I have a moment? Leave the room please."

John nodded, staring at Sherlock as he held the door for everyone to pass. "I don't know how you did it, but when I figure it out, I swear I'm going to strangle you myself."

Molly waited for the door to close before walking up to Sherlock and slapping him hard across the face. "Let me see."

He shook his head, pulling his arms close to his chest. "No."

Molly glared at him. " _ Now _ , Sherlock."

Reluctantly, he closed his eyes tight, turning his head away as he did his best not to shake. Slowly moving his arms away from himself, he lowered them to Molly's hands as she held them softly. "The drugs weren't working. I- I- this- it was all I could do. I'm sorry, just don- don't- please d- don't…" His hands were clenched into fists so tightly that his palms started bleeding where his fingernails were digging into the skin.

Letting out a deep breath, Molly relaxed her body so she didn't seem so threatening, gently prying Sherlock's fingernails out of his palm. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of making Sherlock, the very definition of calm and collected, so scared of her that he stuttered. A five foot four inch woman with no chance against him in any sense whatsoever. "I won't hit you again. I was wrong to do that. I'm sorry." She held his shaking hands a little while longer until it was more from blood loss than anything else. She silently pulled up the big sleeves of the sweater to look at the plasters there that trailed up his forearms. Molly sucked in a small breath, gently peeling them off and looking at the jagged rips on pale skin. There were a few relatively fresh ones, but there were dozens still scabbing over and even more just barely healed. There were dark bruises where fingers had been, the crescent cuts of fingernails peppering all over his arms. Blinking away tears, she took a deep breath. "I'm going to take off your shirt. Okay?" He nodded reluctantly, watching as she pulled it over his head and hissed in pain from the sight of his torso. There were claw marks dragging themselves horribly from the two bullet holes. They looked like little suns on his chest and stomach from the sheer amount of fingernail marks that were scabbing up yellow and dark red. Molly thought it was horrifying, but mostly just sad. "Is it okay if I disinfect these?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

She quickly moved over to the counter where there was the typical supplies for any lab, taking out a package of cotton balls and disinfectant. When she turned back, Sherlock was hunched over on himself, fingernails digging into his upper arms painfully. "Stop that!" He flinched, releasing his arms and drawing himself back in. Molly winced at his reaction, approaching him slowly and gently wiping away the blood dripping down his arms. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you."

Sherlock hung his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Molly sighed, pulling out a cotton ball and dabbing it with disinfectant. "I know you didn't mean to." She closed her mouth, silently wiping at his arms, chest, stomach, and hands, occasionally covering cuts with plasters and wrapping his arms straight up to the armpits. When she was done covering all of Sherlock's open sores, she grabbed the blanket she always kept in a bottom drawer of the lab for cold work nights, and gave it to him. "Use this to cover up. I'll dispose of your sweater." Molly had long ago found out that it was not a funny rust colored sweater, but just a normal one soaked in dry blood. The thought of how much blood it would have taken made her want to vomit.

"Molly?" Sherlock wrapped the dark purple blanket covered in snowflakes tight around his shoulders.

She smiled at him softly. "Yes?"

He looked at his feet. "Thank you."

"Of course." She brushed her hand gently against his arm, placing a delicate kiss against his temple. "You don't have to thank me. I will gladly do this any time you need me to."

Sherlock looked her in the eyes, the corners of his mouth drifting up sadly. "I want to thank you. You may be the only one who deserves it anymore."

She nodded, pulling the blanket a little tighter around him. "Alright. You just work on not hurting yourself and we will be even. How's that?"

Sherlock nodded. "That sounds good." He paused for a moment, studying Molly's left hand. "Have you ever tried dating a woman?"

Molly shook her head. "No. Never really been interested."

Sherlock shrugged. "It wouldn't hurt to try though. I hear same sex relationships are more fulfilling and partners are less likely to cheat. Then again… Tom was cheating."

Molly smiled a bit. "Tom didn't cheat because he was gay. He cheated because he was a whore."

Sherlock nodded. "Agreed."

"I might just try." Molly brushed her fingers lightly over Sherlock's cheek. "Women are very beautiful and I'm sure it means something when every man I actually like turns out to be attracted to men."

He nodded, the large blanket covering him all the way to his toes as he swished his hips back and forth, quickly becoming distracted by the ripple of the smooth fabric. "I like it."

Molly giggled to herself as she watched Sherlock swish the blanket around his feet, fine with letting him become distracted. "You can keep it if you want."

Sherlock smiled. "I would like that very much." He held the soft fabric to his cheeks, his voice barely a whisper when he looked back up to Molly through his knotted curls. "Purple is my favorite color. Did you know that?"

"No." She shook her head slowly. "I never knew you had a favorite."

Sherlock looked back down to his feet. "I didn't until I got friends." He paused for a bit, watching the movement of the blanket. "I think you're my favorite friend right now."

Molly hummed a bit, leaning on the counter across from him. "Why's that?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Is it some complicated reason you can't put into words?"

"No."

"Okay. Do you want to tell me? Or would you rather keep it to yourself?"

"I want you to know."

"Alright. Take your time."

"......It's because you said that you were sorry."

"What?"

"You are the only person who has ever actually apologized for hitting me."

"Oh. That's… not good." She sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying not to overreact and cause Sherlock to flinch away again. "Why am I the first?"

"Nobody has really cared enough to genuinely apologize about anything until now. Most of the time, it's just out of guilt. They never mean it."

Molly wrapped her arms around him slowly, resting her head against his chest. "Have you ever thought about going to a therapist to talk about this?"

Sherlock shook his head, lifting his arms covered in the blanket like wings and wrapping them dramatically around Molly's shoulders. "Why one would be of need, I shall never know, for I have my Molly. You know me better than I know myself and you may be the only one willing to understand without trying to pick into my brain. You are my eyes. You see what I could never."

Molly let out a small giggle, hugging Sherlock tighter and smiling into his chest. "I like the title. Thank you."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I love you Molly. You're family."

She grinned wider, completely delighted. "Family. A very nice word."

Sherlock nodded, letting her out of the blanket prison of his arms. "Should we bring them back in?"

Molly tilted her head towards the door disapprovingly. "That reminds me. You aren't high, so why are your eyes so red?"

Sherlock looked her in the eyes. "My son is dying in the hospital, Molly, and Mycroft is trying to get me off of a murder charge. Use your deduction skills."

She placed a gentle hand on his cheek. "You've been crying."

"Every day since the wedding." He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes and memorizing the feel of a touch that wasn't violent. "I can't be high if I want to visit him in the hospital. I don't want him to see me in such a bad place when he wakes up. He's too important to me."

Molly nodded. "I understand." Then she went to the door to let everyone back inside.

John was still upset, but Mary must have scolded him out in the hall because his cheeks were flaming and he refused to look up at Sherlock for any reason. He stayed glowering in the corner until Mary gave him the task of taking Sherlock home.

  
  


* * *

A bouquet containing Sweet Briar, more commonly known as an Eglantine rose, means "a  **_wound_ ** to heal" in an emotional sense.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

**Kill Him With Aconite and Petunias**

Sherlock wearily deduced John's every move through the rest of the day, being careful to avoid his hands. He noted John's lack of surprise when they found Mycroft searching through 221B for drugs, his angry glare at the umbrella wielding prat, and the way he slammed the door when Mycroft left without finding anything. He was angry. Sherlock was confused because shouldn't John be happy that there were no drugs?

John huffed heavily, falling onto the couch with a glare because there was nowhere else. "Where did my chair go?" He stared at the empty space in the flat, frowning at the floor.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was in the way." He was lying of course, the chair was up in John's room with everything else that reminded him of their time together. It was painful to see everything that reminded him of John, but he left the flat for the drug house almost completely because he couldn't bear to see the absence of who was supposed to be there. He could never go back to Turing-Hart's because there was so much in the House that wasn't in his flat. There were no chemistry tests on the fridge or paints left out on the kitchen table, no dirty dishes left by the couch or shoes thrown to the side of the door, no curiosity fueled experiments on the floor, and no dark blue chair next to his own that he was supposed to shop for with his son. Now, he might not have that ever because he couldn't stop a man holding a gun. Sherlock had decided that he had to stop anyone who could possibly pose a threat to the people he cared about without question. If it kept John, Molly, and Gregory safe, then he would do it.

John sighed, picking up a shoebox off the floor and flipping it in his hands. "Well. That's… too bad. I guess."

Sherlock nodded, watching the shoebox uncomfortably. "Will you set that down?"

John paused flipping the box, holding it still and looking at it from a few different angles. "Why? What is it?”

Sherlock stepped forward a bit, fingers shaking as he reached out. "Those idiots searching my flat took it out and I don't want people looking inside."

John put his hand over the cover, watching the tremor of Sherlock's hands that were poking out from under the blanket. "Is this where you keep your drugs? In a shoebox?"

Sherlock glared. Why didn't John trust him anymore? Snatching the box away, he held it close to his chest. "No. It's the letters that remind me why I'm not overdosing right now in a cheap hotel room and leaving my empty husk for Mycroft to find in a dumpster." He hadn't meant to say that and immediately wished he had kept the little truth to himself when John's face turned pale. "I… didn't mean to say that… I… I'll… I'm going to go take a shower." Placing the box carefully onto his desk, Sherlock stepped away, throwing a glance over his shoulder as John stared at the floor, chillingly still. “Don’t go into my room.”

John nodded, still looking at the floor. “Okay.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

Sherlock paused before taking another step to see if John was actually listening. “I’m dating Mary’s best friend.”

“Okay.”

“I own half of Aisa.”

“Yeah. Mhmm.”

“I made a horrible mistake during your stag night.”

“Okay.”

"I kissed you and liked it."

"Mhmm."

"We had sex."

"Yup."

"I'm not totally sure about the things I feel for you, but I think I've loved you since the Study in Pink."

"That's great."

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. I would kill a man if it would make you smile."

"Okay."

“John. Would you marry me?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock smiled a bit, but his chest was hurting where his heart sat. He liked hearing the words even if they were just unknowing ramblings. “John. John Watson. John. Dear. Sweetheart. Darling. Baby. Honey. Angel. Dove. Sugar… John Hamish Watson!”

John shot up in his seat. “Um, yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll definitely do it. Yes.” He paused, licking his lips. “What was the question?”

“Don’t go into my room.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I knew that." He rubbed his legs and nodded, forcing a half smile that slowly fell the longer they stared into each other's eyes. "Um… shower."

"Ah. Yes." Sherlock looked away, moving to the bathroom and dropped the blanket from his shoulders to peel away Molly's handiwork and step into the shower. He let the water run over his cuts, hissing in pain when the droplets touched the bullet hole suns. After a few moments, he had to lean over onto the wall to keep himself from falling over and alerting John to his pain. Hearing the door inch open, he looked over to see Janine peeking in and he smiled at her softly. "Hey there."

"Hey Sherl. I'm going to come in." Janine stepped through the doorway, leaving the door open, and peeled off the shirt she was wearing. Stepping into the shower, she wrapped her arms around Sherlock's waist, pressing up against him and kissing in between his shoulder blades. He leaned back on her a bit, touching her leg and brushing his thumb over one of the twenty three silver scars on her thighs that matched his fifteen. He had counted them a dozen times.

Sherlock turned in her arms to face her, hands trailing up her body and coming to rest on her cheeks gently as he pecked her lips. "Hello my beautiful Mångata."

Janine grinned, placing a soft kiss to his left shoulder. "Hello Quiescent." She brushed her fingers over Sherlock's chest with just a little bit too much pressure, causing him to let out a rather loud gasp when her fingers ran over the sun-like mark on his chest. "Too hard?"

Sherlock nodded. "Just a little bit."

She pressed her lips against his in an apology before moving to kiss his neck. "I'll be careful."

He closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths because he knew his heart was beating fast. Not because of Janine, no, but because his chest felt like it was going to implode due to the insane amount of pain he was going through. He was breathing heavily and his breath hitched whenever she touched his arms. Attempting to keep the movement of his chest to a minimum so he didn't start bleeding again, he let Janine kiss him wherever she wanted despite how uncomfortable he was. When she tried to go further down, Sherlock stopped her. "No. No. It hurts too much." His eyes rolled back in his head and legs gave out as his head felt like it was spinning out of control.

She immediately stopped, looking up at him with worried eyes. "Where?"

Sherlock tried to choke out words, but he failed, just tapping his chest lightly with a few fingers and coming away with blood. "Fuck." Slowly, he lowered himself to sit on the floor of the shower aided by Janine who turned off the water and grabbed a towel.

"Hey there. Shh. You're fine." She gingerly dried him off as he sat and gathered himself to stand again. She kept her hand pressed against the bleeding scab that broke open while drying his face. "Don't worry. It's just blood loss. It will pass when you eat something."

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah. I know." Slowly sitting up on his own, he grabbed the towel from her and held it against his chest while he stood up. "Help me cover this?"

Janine nodded, finding the first aid kit under the sink and taking some objects out. "Take your hand away." He did as told and Janine wrapped him back up and he had to admit that it was much less gentle than Molly had. She quickly finished with a few pieces of medical tape on his shoulders where he had hurt himself at Bart's.

Sherlock slipped from the bathroom and into his room to get dressed in his normal attire, tossing Janine her clothes that were dropped onto his bed with a smile. She padded over to him naked, kissing him gently as she buttoned his shirt slowly, wrapping her arms around his waist. He closed his eyes softly, concentrating on the lips kissing his, comparing them unconsciously to the only other lips he kissed, imaging them in front of him. Bringing his hands up and around their neck, he rested his elbows on their shoulders and kissed them leisurely, wanting the moment to last. Sherlock kissed their lips, diving deeper and licking their bottom lip to gain entrance because Sherlock wanted them. Wanted him. Wanted John. He pressed his hands against John's back, brushed his fingers against John's neck, kissed John's mouth. It was all John.

John.

John. 

John. 

"Quiescent. Sweetheart." Sherlock flew back to reality to see Janine blushing and looking down between their bodies. "Control yourself."

Sherlock looked down and stepped back, having become half hard. When he remembered that he was kissing Janine, it quickly wilted and he looked at it angrily. He should be able to control himself better. Shrugging and turning to give Janine some privacy to change, he walked over to the door, waiting before Janine grabbed his hand and walked out into the hall.

They walked hand in hand into the kitchen where there was a pot of coffee sitting on the table, two mugs poured and waiting. "Oh. That's right. I asked John to make some coffee." She smiled handing Sherlock one of the mugs that just had plain black coffee, but he shook his head, grabbing the purple mug on the table. Smiling, he took a sip of the coffee that was practically just half sugar and milk, and made his way into the sitting room. Janine stayed in the kitchen behind him, rummaging around in the refrigerator. "Quiescent, I'm going to make you something to eat and then go to work. Okay?"

Sherlock sat down in his seat, sipping his warm drink. "Of course Mångata. I would never want you to be late because of me." He leaned back in his chair, glancing over to the strange looks John was shooting him. "What is it John, I know you want to ask something."

John shuffled nervously, leaning against the wall by the fireplace and thinking a bit before speaking, drinking a cup of tea he had made for himself. "Mångata? Quiescent? What is all that?"

Sherlock sighed, sipping again from his giant purple mom mug while deducing just how uncomfortable John was. "Janine has Swedish ancestors. Mångata is a Swedish for the reflection of moonlight against water. I thought that she would appreciate the… sentiment and symbolism behind it. Also it is a type of… pet name, as they say."

John nodded, looking more confused than ever. "And Quiescent?"

"Someone with an old, soft spoken soul." Sherlock looked discreetly over to John as he sipped his tea quietly, the gears turning in his brain so obviously that Sherlock could practically hear them.

"You are thinking much too loud John. Just ask your bloody questions when they pop into your head so I am spared the moody looks of a teenager." Sherlock turned to look out the window, not meaning to sound rude, but he was uncomfortable around this John. Around this John, he had to be careful about everything he said, watching for the tell tale twitch of John's hands when he was about to throw a punch.

John just sighed, walking across the room to sit on the couch again. "So, are you two serious?"

"Serious?"

"You know… _serious_."

Sherlock was silent. He didn't know if he was understanding what type of serious John meant. Was it the type of serious that he had been bugging Mycroft about, or just the normal type of serious where it was a confirmation of dating and being in a relationship? "I am not sure I comprehend what you are trying to-"

"Oh. Yeah. Of course you don't know what I'm saying." John rubbed the back of his neck, taking a deep breath. "Are you… in love with her?"

Sherlock frowned. Had John just dumbed something down for him? Like he was a child? He wasn't sure, but that was the part that frustrated him. "What do you think John. I'm dating her and it is quite obvious that I don't often find people interesting enough to listen to, much less willingly spend time with."

John looked to the ground, cheeks tinting pink. "Oh. So you are dating her?"

"Yes."

"So, you have a girlfriend?"

Sherlock let his eyes flicker down John's body to watch the body language John was expressing in his uneasy movements. "Yes John. I thought that it was fairly obvious."

"And you're in a relationship with a woman." John had long since abandoned his tea, just holding it in his hands.

Sherlock on the other hand was still drinking his coffee and watching John fully at this point. "Yes. I am."

"You and Janine."

"Yes. Me and Janine."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, becoming quite annoyed with the repetitive questions. He couldn't exactly tell John that he was only comfortable around Janine like this because she knew that he was cutting himself and was helping him get over the need. "It is very… affirming. We are in a good place."

Leaning back, John nodded, taking a sip of his cold tea before cringing and setting it down. "So, a good place. Like what… kind? Of a good place, I mean."

Sherlock sighed. "A good place is a good place. She is happy and that is good, so that means we are in a good place. We go on dates, so that means it is good too. We kiss and hug and hold hands, so that could be considered good. We have had sex, which is a completely unnecessary and rather pointless practice that Janine is fine with a lack of at most times. It's all in a good place, so obviously when you got to such a point in your relationship you proposed and you're married. With a kid. So, yes John. We are in a good place and even if I do not always know how to elaborate or take the next step into forming a relationship, I know who I want to marry and have a life with. I know my own brain and if I love someone, I know exactly who it is because I am not a child and won't be treated like one. I have had enough of that with everyone else who knows about my condition and I didn't think I would be getting it from you too."

John nodded, turning bright red and twisting his ring around his finger. "Yes. I'm sorry. I guess I didn't know I was doing that." He cleared his throat and dipped his head to stare at the floor again. "So, you're going to marry her."

Sherlock watched the red creep up the back of John's neck, unable to see his face. "I will ask, yes." He watched John in silence until Janine entered the room with a sandwich, cheeks pink and smile on her lips.

She grinned at him knowingly, kissing his temple and sitting on the edge of his chair. "You two boys better be behaving yourself in here."

Sherlock took the sandwich and placed his arm around her waist to pull her down to his lap. "Hmmm. And if I don't want to?"

Janine giggled, pushing Sherlock's head away and making herself more comfortable on his lap. "Behave Sherl! I still need to know where you've been for the last few days."

Sherlock shrugged, kissing her lips softly. "I was working my little moonbeam."

"Ah. I should have known." She smiled, brushing her finger down his jaw. "I'm the only one who knows what you are really like, remember?"

Sherlock heard a quiet choke of shock from John's side of the room before he smiled blindingly at Janine. "Now don't you go letting on Mångata. We can't let everyone know." He brushed his thumb lightly over her cheek, staring into her eyes.

"Well, I might do just that." She kissed his lips lightly, wrapping her fingers into Sherlock's hand. "Maybe I want everyone to know I'm dating the cleverest on Earth." Sherlock smiled lightly into her mouth before she turned her head away from him to look at John. "Oh, don't tell Mary, it's supposed to be a surprise, but I'm sure we could have you over for dinner real soon." 

John nodded. "Yes. Of course. Dinner. That's… wonderful." Sherlock could hear from John's voice that it was the exact opposite of wonderful.

Janine stood up with a smile, placing yet another little kiss onto Sherlock's lips. "Well, I best be going."

Sherlock stood as well, escorting her to the living room door and pushed it open for her. "Have a fantastic day. Don't forget to call."

She grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Well it really does depend on if I find someone prettier that I don't have to fix." Pressing her lips firmly onto Sherlock's, she kissed him, slipping in a little tongue and biting his lip before pulling away. "Solve me a crime Sherlock Holmes." 

Sherlock smiled at her as she left, letting his smile drop when he turned to look at John. “The case I was on was about a man named Charles Agustus Magnussen. You most likely know him as a newspaper owner, but he is so much more than that. He is an incredibly dangerous man, using his power and wealth to gain information.” Sherlock walked over to the dining table, pulling his laptop out from under a mess of papers and opening it. “The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power. I’m not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge.” He pulled up a blueprint for a rather futuristic looking house, turning it to John with a flourish. “Its name… is Appledore.”

“So… dinner?”

“What are you talking about?”

John scratched the back of his head, shrugging lightly. ‘Me and Mary. Having dinner with… wine and… sitting.”

Sherlock shot him a judging look of disbelief, pointing to the laptop he had in his hand. “Seriously? I’ve just told you that the Western world is run from this house and you want to talk about _dinner_?”

Fiddling with his ring, John looked down to the ground, shrugging again while avoiding eye contact. “Well, you never used to agree to go to… dinner.”

Sherlock sighed. “Maybe back then it was less about the dinner part of it and more about the company.”

John snorted. “Well that’s just great to hear. You just didn’t want to go to… dinner with me?”

“John, I can hear your blatant jealousy from here and I don’t understand why you are so upset about me dating Janine.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you only met Janine two months ago at a wedding where you lost your son and you’re trying to replace something by marrying a _complete stranger_?”

“I did not lose my boy and I would never even think about replacing his presence with a wife! What kind of father do you think I am?”

John stood up, taking a step towards Sherlock while glaring. “I don’t know what kind of father you are because I didn’t even know you had a child until he jumped in front of a bullet for me at my own wedding! Just one more thing you never told me about!”

Sherlock scowled, slamming his computer back onto the table. “I can keep my own secrets John. I’m sick of people trying to split open my head to rifle through all of my private information. Sometimes, I don’t want to be subjected to all the goldfish analyzing my words and actions to pounce on one mistake to call me a freak!”

“Then maybe stop being one all the time!” John stomped forward towards Sherlock angrily.

Sherlock couldn’t think right. Freak. John had called him a _freak_. All he could see was John coming for him and suddenly he was twelve again, being held down on the ground by his wrists and ankles by kids much older than him, fists and feet pummeling him mercilessly. The hurtful words being flung at him and carved into his back with pocket knives. Emotionless. Monster. Worthless. Faggot. Machine. _**Freak**_. He flinched away, falling to the ground and pushing himself away to make himself a smaller target. His arms came up above his head and his knees pressed painfully against his chest, leaning on the side of his chair so he could protect at least one side of his body from the pain. He didn’t know when he started crying, but he kept his tears hidden, unable to stop the shaking of his body. After a while without the pain coming, he peeked out from under his arm, cheeks wet and eyes red, to see John frozen a few feet away. “Leave.”

John’s eyes were wide, the blue of his eyes clear and drowning in tears. “Your eyes were… because you were crying? Is this my fault?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, hating the feelings that John made him feel. He hated how John could hurt him over and over without caring and he hated being weak. Mycroft was right. Caring wasn’t an advantage. It was a weakness that Sherlock couldn’t live with anymore. “You need to leave. I can’t trust you anymore. I did the whole ‘feelings’ thing and I hate it. I gave you the weapons to kill me because I never believed you would use them, but you did and broke the fragile trust I decided to leave with you.” Sherlock stood up, wiping his eyes and facing John head on. For the first time since he met John, Sherlock deliberately used his height to intimidate someone smaller than him, causing John to shrink back in the same way Sherlock always did around him. “I should have learned my lesson in the bomb carriage and deleted you, but I was too stupid. I got _involved_.”

“Sherlock I-”

“Get out of my flat Doctor Watson.”

“Plea-”

“GET OUT!” Sherlock watched John flinch then leave the flat silently.

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, watching as John left with a worried expression, stepping into the flat when John closed the front door. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned away to spare Mrs. Hudson the tears already slipping down his cheeks and dropping off his chin. “I suggest you leave before I yell at you to get out as well.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed, stepping towards Sherlock slowly and rubbing his back. “Dear, you can’t get rid of me that easily. You have been living here for years and I know how to deal with your little outbursts, even when I act as if I don’t. Now tell me, what happened?”

Sherlock leaned into her touch, letting out a breath that he didn't know he was holding. He was letting himself one last moment of weakness. One last moment where he felt the feelings John had broken and thrown at his feet. “I used to be so collected. I gave myself to him in a wild leap of trust because I didn’t really know that the floor wasn’t going to give out under my feet, but I trusted him enough not to hurt me. At least, not on purpose. But he hurt me. He hurt me and I don’t know what I could possibly do, because if I can remember him, the only thing left is the pain.”

She embraced him gently, just holding him and letting him cry silently. “He made you better.”

“He made me vulnerable. Weak. It felt wonderful to give myself to him, but in surrender lies madness.” He leaned his head against he shoulder, tears soaking into her shirt. “I hate being human. I hate heights because there is so much falling. I hate feelings and I hate him.”

“Oh, Dear. You don’t hate him. You love him.”

“Love isn’t supposed to hurt this much. How can I love him when there is this much pain? How can I love him when he broke me so bad that I can no longer live with the memories of him?”

She rubbed his back and held him tight in the arms of a mother. “Love never makes sense. It’s supposed to be wild and reckless, throwing yourself completely into the arms of someone else and hoping that they don’t break your heart.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, hugging her desperately. “It hurts so much. It hurts too much. I want it to disappear.”

Mrs. Hudson kissed him lightly on the forehead, tearing up. “You do whatever you need to Dear, just don’t go leaving me alone again. Your life is much too important to me.”

“Mrs. Hudson. I’m sorry. I need to be alone.” Sherlock squeezed her in a promise.

She nodded, sniffing and letting go of him to wipe away her tears. “I know. I know Dear. Just make sure that it is what you really want.”

Sherlock nodded. “I have to do this. It’s what I want to do.”

Mrs. Hudson grabbed his hands, squeezing them tight before leaving the room, sobbing silently into a handkerchief.

Sherlock sat down on his chair, crossing his legs and pressing his hands together under his chin, relaxing his body.

_What is falling in love? Was it the sly smiles, the longing, pining, or soft looks? Was it the waiting? Was it simply the touch of hands or the brush of sleeping lips. Was it the dark alleys pressed against each other or the heart pounding chase through the city? Was it the deep color of his eyes or the open admiration he showed? Or was it just the fact that he believed when nobody else did?_

Sherlock entered his Mind Palace, gathering everything that had to do with John, the good and the bad, and shoving it all into the room at the top of the stairs. He poured a yellowish liquid onto the floor before backing out of the room and pouring the liquid all over the stairs. When a safe distance away, Sherlock put down the gas can and pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lighting a single one and letting it drop.

  
  


* * *

Aconite is a pretty-looking flower that actually means **_hatred_ **, so it is an opportune flower for after a particularly nasty break up.

The petunia symbolizes **_resentment_ **and anger. It may be a striking flower, but its message is sure to get you into trouble.

  
  


* * *


End file.
